


Learn to Live Again

by bunnycloset



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, But it will be fixed, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, a tasteful smattering of smut, bc i said so and im the author, character growth!, two dorks in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnycloset/pseuds/bunnycloset
Summary: Being dead kinda made talking to living people difficult.Luckily, Mitch has plenty of experience in the art of ghostly pranking-and getting some fun reactions out of each owner as they cycle through the mansion. He felt a little bad, admittedly, but as long as this blond guy keeps blaming everything on his cat, Mitch was going to keep it up.At the very least, he wanted credit for his mischief. At most? Well...
Relationships: Mitch Grassi & Scott Hoying, Mitch Grassi/Scott Hoying
Comments: 25
Kudos: 56





	1. Convo with a Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello again. I have promised more content and here it is. Chapter 1, at least, lol. But more to come! (Comments make me post faster so pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease say something! You guys are awesome and I want to hear what you think!!!)
> 
> TW: There's quite a bit of discussion about death and also some talking about knives, but nothing super graphic. More intensely, there's some internalized homophobia (but we work that out, I promise. You're a valuable little bean and you deserve all the love!)

The new guy was getting on his nerves already. He’d literally been here for, what, six? Seven days? And Mitch was getting fed up with his absolute _refusal_ to acknowledge him.

Well, to be fair, he might just not know Mitch was there yet. Being dead kind of made talking to living people difficult. 

He wasn’t exactly being _subtle_ though. Two hundred years of sitting around one really, _really_ dull and lonely mansion had given Mitch plenty of time to practice doing spooky ghost stuff, like blowing a paper off of a counter. 

Yeah, exciting, he knows.

Sometimes he manages to do other stuff, when he’s _really_ trying. One time—and this could very easily be his greatest achievement since he was actually alive and could _do_ things—he spent two weeks straight slowly unscrewing the chandelier hanging in the foyer until it crashed to the floor and scared the _shit_ out of the dickhead businessman who lived there. Needless to say, Mitch had gotten to not-live alone for a while again after that.

His little stunt had apparently become legendary in whatever city was nearby now, according to the teenagers who had broken in several times between owners and attempted to talk to him. They were fun to try to get a scare out of, but they always seemed more interested in screaming a lot and trying to freak each other out than having a friendly chat.

His most recent stretch of being alone at the mansion had come to an end though with _this_ bastard. 

Okay, he really wasn’t _that_ bad, but seriously? His cat did _not_ turn off the lamp with a twisty knob. His cat did _not_ flip the doormat upside down. His cat did _not_ turn the heat up on the stovetop, burning the hell out of those eggs and making the kitchen smell so bad, Mitch could almost taste it. 

This guy _did_ tend to forget that the “tee-vee” was playing before he went to bed, so Mitch didn’t _particularly_ want to scare him off like he did that asshole in ‘58. Mitch needed some time to catch up on these films. Or movies? Whatever the guy called them now. 

He really did want some attention though, so maybe he wouldn’t lay off the pranks _completely_ . He could probably call it a success when the guy stops yelling “ _Wyaaaaaaatt!_ ” every time Mitch manages to knock something over. 

Speaking of “Wyatt”, that cat was… actually okay. 

Mitch was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring down the little gray blob of skin soaking up all the sunlight through the window. The cat lifted its head and made _direct eye contact with Mitch_. Woah, it was more than a little unsettling. When was the last time that happened? 

Blond dude chose that exact moment to freeze in the doorway and stare down at the cat. 

“What the hell are you doing, Wy-Wy?”

The cat (and Mitch) strained to look up at the confused face.

Mitch could at least _pretend_ to have a conversation, right? “ _He’s making a friend, what does it look like?_ ”

Blondie didn’t react to Mitch’s question at all. Shame. That would have made not-life a bit more interesting.

To Mitch’s surprise, the cat’s ears swiveled at the sound of his voice. Wyatt pushed himself to an uncomfortable-looking slouch and batted his paw through the knife hilt buried in Mitch’s chest. 

“ _Buddy, play with that all you want. It’s not going anywhere._ ”

“Yeah, okay, my cat is officially insane,” came the voice from the doorway. 

Mitch chuckled. “ _What did you expect him to do? Drink tea in the lounge with you?_ ”

The man was already walking away, and the cat regarded Mitch for about two more seconds before jumping up and following. 

Great. So he’s being ignored by the cat too now.

Mitch ended up spending a few hours (hours?—time is weird when you’re dead) standing in a dark, half-unpacked bathroom, squinting at the faint outline of himself in the mirror. It had been a while since he’d done this, but the unsettling feeling of meeting someone’s eyes—even if it was just a cat—was new enough that it had Mitch longing to experience it again.

A pang of desperation shot through his chest—at the exact same time that he _flickered into view_. _What the hell?_ The shock of _seeing_ himself again lasted much longer than his reflection managed to. 

The few seconds were all it took for Mitch to soak in the sight again. He looked the same as he always had for the last 202 years. Short, cropped hair covered his head, (the transition between him trying to grow his hair back after going bald never finished), the white blouse shirt torn open at his sternum to make way for the dark wooden hilt of a dagger stuck in him, pale, pasty skin much lighter than the olive-tinted tan his heritage had gifted him during life. The mirror wasn’t long enough to let him see anything else in his five seconds of success, but he knew what the rest of him looked like. He could look down and see the mirage of his body whenever he wanted—the loose, dark blue pajama pants and bare feet usually visible, except in bright sunlight when he got too washed out.

Two things held his interest from the brief view he caught. The first: making eye contact was still _really, really, really weird_. The second: his white shirt was still white. 

He knew that _logically_ , considering he’d spent weeks worth of his not-life staring down at his chest in confusion, but it looked so _wrong_ in the mirror that he couldn’t help but make note of it again.

Where the blade of the knife met his skin, there was no blood. If he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t experienced it himself, he might not have believed he had actually been murdered. The hilt sticking out of his chest would look like it was just a hilt resting against his skin. There was no sign of an actual wound, just the hilt sitting uncomfortably amongst the folds of his shirt. 

He reached his hand up hesitantly and brushed his fingers through the wood. Nope. Same as always—his hand went straight through it. His fingers pressed against his chest, half-feeling the cold skin, but no knife. 

He dropped his hand and went back to staring at the shadowy outline of himself in the mirror. Maybe someday he’d figure out what the hell was wrong with it, but for now, he was just gonna be content with figuring out some more stuff to do to annoy Blond Guy.

***********************

At what point does he move past being concerned about his cat and start taking him to the vet? 

Scott sighed and stared down at Wyatt as he stood on his back legs and tried to scratch at nothing but thin air, managing to balance for a _whopping_ two seconds before he flopped back down on the floor. He was just being so _weird_ out of nowhere. When the two of them had lived in their old apartment, Wyatt had always behaved like a little gentleman, never like a—a drunk _toddler_. 

How many _times_ was he going to have to clean up all these random messes the cat made? At least Kirstie thought his pictures and videos of the insane feline were funny.

_Maybe it was just all this new space_ , Scott sighed and leaned back against the counter as he tried to reason with himself. The mansion had been… almost concerningly cheap for its size and majesty. Kirstie had mentioned something about the price being affected by _supernatural forces_ , according to the local legends she had grown up with around the city. 

Well, Scott had _not_ grown up around Palm Valley, so whatever rumors about _ghosts_ Kirstie may think are _fact_ are just stories to him. He’d only moved here a few years ago when he first got hired by RCA Records. He’d met Kirstie there and the two of them got on _amazingly,_ and she quickly adopted him as her new best friend. Of course, it’s been a while since then, and now he and Kirstie had both managed to make names for themselves as artists (Kirstie) and producers (him). 

He had figured, with a paycheck considerably larger than it used to be, why not splurge a little? The mansion had been a surprising option, but paired with Kirstie’s enthusiastic encouragement, a cheaper-than-he-dared-hope price tag, and relatively short distance to the studio he could almost see in the city down the valley from the house, he had gone with it. 

He pushed himself off the counter and headed back towards his half-assembled workstation. He’d give Wyatt another few weeks to settle down before he started making calls. _He_ was still settling in, Scott supposed, so maybe a month just wasn’t enough for the little guy. 

He contented himself with blasting Kirstie’s most recent album and belting along to it while he slowly assembled the new soundboards he had _finally_ gotten delivered. 

_This is gonna be epic when it’s set up_. Scott grinned as he took in the room slowly coming together. He finally had enough space to put together an at-home studio for himself (and Kirstie and friends), and now all he had to do was finish assembling it. It wasn’t looking too bad already, if he did say so—

“ _Wyaaaaaaatt!_ ” 

Scott groaned at the sound of distant crashing furniture. 

“I _swear_ , if you broke another lamp—”

He turned to go find whatever new mess Wyatt had created and promptly froze before he could get his feet out of the room. 

Wyatt was sitting next to him on the floor. 

“ _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ —”

If the cat was on the floor staring at him, then _what is going on in the living room_ ? Scott forced himself to pause his music and go investigate, possibly just a _little_ comforted by Wyatt’s friendly presence following him.

Yep, there it was. A lamp, knocked over in the middle of the living room. He was gonna blame it on maybe—a box falling, or something, and knocking it over. But he had unpacked the living room already and there were no boxes present. Well, then maybe the house… shifted? He frowned. Well, it had to be something like that or he’d have to assume someone broke in. Which obviously also couldn’t be the case because who would break into a house when the owner is clearly home and making _a bit of noise_ themselves? He checked the security system just in case—thankful that he had thought to get it installed right away—but nope. Nothing was there. 

Scott stood back in the living room, staring down at the lamp with his arms crossed. _Well, at least it didn’t break this time_. He glanced back at Wyatt, still watching him curiously, just in case the cat decided to somehow admit to being guilty for this one too, but didn’t receive an answer. 

He set the lamp back up in the corner. _Whatever_. At least Kirstie would think it’s funny.


	2. Denial Ain't Just a River

“ _ How the hell do you blame that on a cat?! _ ” Mitch gaped at the grumpy dude—Scott, his girlfriend or whoever he was on the phone with had called him—as he sighed at his sort-of-empty kitchen. 

The last time Mitch had checked, cats didn’t know how to open cabinet doors, let alone  _ every single one in the goddamn kitchen _ . 

Scott started closing the doors. “You know, Wyatt, I almost wish ghosts were real so that I could actually figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“ _ I’m literally standing right here. _ ”

“I really have no idea how you do this.”

“ _ Years of practice. Years. _ ”

The cat on the counter meowed and swiped at Mitch.

“ _ Watch the claws, buddy. I may be dead but you can still be polite _ .”

“And what is with you batting the air all the time? Do you need a new toy or something?” Scott was standing right behind Mitch, glaring straight through his head at the cat. 

“ _ Maybe he just loves me more. I am pretty awesome. _ ”

Scott stepped through Mitch to pet Wyatt and immediately shivered as Mitch tried to jump back out of his way, slightly jarred by the feeling of—distortion? How else could he describe it? 

“Jesus, it’s cold in here.”

Mitch huffed and stalked out of the room. He couldn’t deal with Mr. Oblivious anymore today.

**********************

Scott just about shit his pants when a cookbook fell onto the floor behind him with a deafening  _ slap _ against the polished stone.

He was dialing Kirstie’s number before he really even notices he has his phone out. 

“ _ Now _ what did the cat do?”

“A cookbook fell on the floor. Face down. By itself. Wyatt isn’t even in here.”

He could hear her sigh heavily. “I  _ told  _ you, that place is more haunted than a graveyard—”

“There’s  _ no way ghosts _ —”

“Well then how else can you explain that?”

Scott glared at the open cupboard where the other cookbooks rest. “Well, uh, I don’t know how it landed face down like that, but maybe I  _ almost _ knocked that one out when I grabbed the cookbook I’m  _ using _ out?”

“Uh huh. And how do you explain the flickering lights?”

“Faulty wiring?”

“And the random banging sounds?”

“Wyatt—”

“Don’t you dare say the cat.”

“— _ or  _ maybe something in the studio glitches a bunch? And just makes random sounds?”

Another sigh. “Why won’t you even consider the possibility?”

“Because it’s ridiculous and the only  _ fucking _ thing that makes sense!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Scott.”

Scott put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter, freeing his hands to rub at his temples. “How do you—what makes you believe that ghosts are real? How are you so convinced?”

He could picture her propping her feet up on a coffee table. “You know my grand story. A bunch of my friends and I broke into that mansion in high school. We all thought it was stupid but we were gonna sleepover in there anyway for bragging rights. You know, like any sane high schooler would do. It was as boring as we had expected it to be for about two hours, but then I saw him.”

Scott  _ did _ know this story. Kirstie had proudly told it many times, especially around Halloween just to spook everyone. He had always just laughed it off in the past, but now he wasn’t quite so sure. 

“I was standing in the hallway, with my friends in one of the rooms, when I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye. I screamed and turned, and of course he disappeared as soon as I tried to look at him.”

Scott lifted his head slowly and looked around the kitchen, half expecting to see a figure emerge, but very glad when it all looked normal. 

“My friends didn’t believe me when they said I saw a ghost, and they convinced me that I imagined it. So we all set out our sleeping bags and started telling ghost stories and stuff. I was freaked out, but I just tried to forget about it and have fun. Until we were playing cards and I saw him again.”

Scott was biting his nails now. 

“He was standing in the doorway, but this time, it was just a silhouette. I froze and I pointed at it, but none of my friends could see it. They all got scared then, and I remember Jeremy starting to say something like, ‘Let’s get out of here’. But then I woke up on the floor with them all looking down at me in horror.”

This was the part of the story that Kirstie didn’t tell in front of children, because she claimed that one time she had, and the kid had started crying. 

“They told me that I had zoned out and they all thought I was pranking them, until they couldn’t get me to move and I wouldn’t look at anyone. They said they were about ready to ditch me and run, but then I started  _ talking _ . They told me that I said exactly two sentences. I said, ‘Good evening, everyone. I hope you all did your homework before you came to visit me.’ And then I passed out.”

Scott could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It felt like someone was watching him. He turned his head, but there was still no one there. 

“So then what did you do?”

“They made me drink some water and then we left as fast as we could.”

“...are you going to make fun of me if I ask you to come over?”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Thank you.”

Kirstie hung up and Scott put his phone in his pocket. He hesitated before he turned back to the vegetables sitting on the cutting board in front of him. 

“...Hello?” He closed his eyes and held his breath.

The faint whisper felt like it was spoken right into his ear. “Hello.”

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST—”

**********************

Okay, Mitch kind of felt bad now. To be fair, he hadn’t known that Scott was going to be able to hear him. He was just trying to be funny and entertain himself, but then the poor man had jumped higher than a kangaroo and booked it out the front door so fast Mitch had been worried he was going to break something. 

But let’s go back to the whole  _ Scott hearing him  _ thing. 

Scott had  _ heard  _ him. 

Mitch had  _ made noise _ . 

He honestly didn’t know if he’d ever been able to talk before. Granted, it was only one word, but still. 

At least Scott knew he was here now. 

…He really hoped that Scott wasn’t going to leave. 

Mitch had admittedly gotten a  _ little _ attached to him. When Scott worked from home, Mitch would sit against the back wall of his studio and listen to him mix tracks and make samples. When Scott went into work, Mitch would talk to Wyatt and watch movies (Scott really never did turn off the TV thing). Mitch found it particularly adorable when Scott made jokes to himself. Of course, Mitch laughed at most of them, but Scott didn’t know that.

Mitch froze.  _ Wait… what _ —

Adorable. He had called the man standing outside and flailing his arms around at the woman climbing out of her car  _ adorable _ . That… wasn’t good. That was  _ really  _ not good. That was… a problem for another time when there weren’t  _ other _ issues to be dealt with.

Scott and—what did he say her name was? Krissy?—were walking up the steps. The lady opened the door and took a step inside, looking  _ far _ more at ease than the jumpy Scott behind her. Mitch recognized her vaguely from a housewarming party Scott had hosted a few weeks ago (where he’d mostly sat alone in the basement) as who he assumed to be one of Scott’s closest friends.

“I  _ swear _ Kirstie, it was like,  _ right _ in my ear.”

“Yes, Scott, I heard you the first twelve times,” Kirstie teased him gently. Mitch could tell already that he was gonna like her. 

She was walking towards the living room, scanning the area like she was looking for the ghost that she had claimed to have seen in high school. 

Mitch wondered if there was another haunted mansion around here somewhere that she had meant instead of this one, because he sure as hell didn’t remember  _ possessing  _ somebody. If he knew how to do that, maybe he would have figured out a way to leave this stupid house already. 

Possession seemed like way more work than shoving a lamp for a while until it tipped over. Possession was also kinda creepy to him. He didn’t want to  _ do that _ to someone, let alone a random teenage girl. Maybe he  _ had _ done it then? And just blocked it out of his memory because it had been so awful for him  _ and _ the poor Kirstie lady?

Kirstie was setting down her bag on a chair when she turned around and her eyes swept across the room. Mitch felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when her eyes locked straight onto his for a second. She looked away just as fast as she’d held his gaze though, and she didn’t react to it at all. 

Mitch felt the disappointment rise in his chest. He had thought, maybe,  _ maybe  _ she had actually seen him. But if she didn’t say anything…  _ Damn it.  _

Kirstie sat down in a chair and waved Scott over to sit by her. Wyatt sprang up onto her lap and started purring as she shushed Scott’s whispered, panicky concerns. 

“Hello? Is there someone here with us?” She glanced around the room casually while Scott bounced his knee anxiously.

“ _ Yep. _ ”

“My name is Kirstie, and this is Scott. Can you say either of our names?”

“ _ Well, I could. If I wanted to. _ ” Kirstie was waiting very patiently for an answer that she couldn’t hear. “ _ This isn’t gonna work. I could scream at you all ni _ —”

“Can you tell us your name? Scott heard you talk before, we know you’re here.” Kirstie unknowingly cut off his exasperated rant. 

“ _ Mitch. Mitch Grassi. Mitch Mitch Mitch  _ M—”

“Woah!” Scott jumped and turned to Kirstie. “Oh my god, did you hear that? There was like an  _ mmm _ sound!”

Kirstie shushed him and pointed at Wyatt, completely unaware of the excited bouncing from Mitch.  _ Scott heard him again! _

“That could have just been his purring.”

Scott’s jaw dropped and Mitch had to agree with the glare he focused on her. “So  _ you _ can blame ghost stuff on Wyatt but  _ I _ can’t?”

Kirstie shrugged. “I’m just saying, it  _ could _ be Wyatt. I’m giving you plausible deniability here.” She turned back to the middle of the room. “Did you say something? Does your name start with an M?”

“ _ What did you think me yelling ‘Mitch’ a bunch of times meant? Yes! Mitch. Mitch. Miiiiitch. M-I-T- _ C-H _. _ ”

Scott’s face lit up and he grabbed Kirstie’s arm. “Oh my god! I heard him say ‘C-H’! What starts with Ch?”

“ _ You’re fucking kidding me. _ ”

“Charles?” Kirstie offered.

Scott jumped to his feet and looked around the room. “Charles? Charles! Uh, it’s nice to meet you.”

Mitch buried his face in his hands and groaned.

Kirstie laughed. “You sure changed your mind about ghosts real fast.”

Scott shrugged. “I figure I don’t have much of a choice if I don’t want to move again. And I’m  _ really  _ attached to my new studio.”

Kirstie clapped her hands. “Speaking of which! Can we?”

“Oh  _ hell _ yes!”

“Charles” temporarily forgotten, they moved on to the studio. Mitch would have minded more about being ignored again, if it wasn’t for his new revelation. Mitch realized that, even if  _ they _ couldn’t hear  _ him _ ,  _ he _ could add his own third part onto whatever harmony Kirstie and Scott were singing—given that he could figure out the song, of course.


	3. I Spy With My Little Eye...

Now that he knew that there was a ghost, a  _ real, actual ghost _ , living (haha) with him, Scott found himself getting more and more excited by every random noise or moving object. He had started talking to Charles more than he’d like to admit. It wasn’t often that he got a response, but sometimes, he would get a random word from Charles and he would feel his heart almost beat out of his chest. 

Charles would usually find other ways to communicate with Scott. Sometimes when he was in his studio, he would get a few notes plunked on his baby grand. Charles seemed to like participating in the music, and Scott quickly realized that the notes the ghost offered would sometimes…  _ work  _ with whatever song he was toying with. He felt bad that he couldn’t credit Charles on anything  _ official _ he ended up taking Charles’ piano-plunking advice on, but the only person at the label who wouldn’t make fun of him for it was Kirstie. 

Charles also seemed to take an interest in the variety of technology Scott had around the house. Along with playing with some of the knobs on the sound board, Charles was also known to flick lightswitches on and off, let the sink in the kitchen run (which taught Scott not to leave the drain plug in), and most often, flick through channels on the TV. 

The first time he had seen the TV remote fall on the floor, he had thought Charles was just trying to get his attention. It had taken several days worth of the volume randomly being adjusted and whatever movie was playing pausing randomly without starting again before Scott had realized that Charles could probably use a crash course in technology. 

He had held the remote up and explained how to use it, what each button did, and recommended certain shows. As ridiculous as it felt to do that, it must have worked, because now the TV would slowly direct itself to  _ Spongebob Squarepants  _ every chance it got. At least the ghost had good taste.

The first time Kirstie had seen Charles do that, she had cheered and congratulated him on a good job. The lights had flickered at her praise, to their surprise. 

Kirstie was visiting Charles and him a lot these days. Scott was honestly jealous that Kirstie’s comments and attention got responses so easily. But that was more than a little ridiculous, because he didn’t need to be jealous that  _ his ghost likes Kirstie more _ . 

It still didn’t  _ stop _ him from being jealous, though. 

Looking back on it, maybe he should have spent more time trying to process what was actually happening rather than excitedly trying to communicate with his dead house-mate. Because of course he eventually freaked out on Charles. 

***********************

Scott brought one of his other friends over for dinner. This guy’s name was Matt, and he had a really nice laugh. Mitch was doing his absolute best to get as much laughter out of this guy as he could—not  _ entirely  _ because it also made Scott light up and laugh a lot—but also because it was nice to meet someone new again and have them actually like him. 

Mitch had gotten significantly better at making stuff interact with him since Scott had started talking to him. He had a theory—not a theory that he particularly  _ liked _ , but it  _ was _ a theory—that he was able to do more stuff because when Scott talked to him, it helped remind him what being alive was like. 

But that was kinda depressing, so he didn’t think about it that much.

He was  _ also  _ doing his absolute best to not notice Scott’s hair. Or eyes. Or smile. Or— _ No, stop it!  _ Even if he was alive, that was  _ not _ a path he wanted to go down. Not again.

Matt’s sitting at the counter, telling a story about his  _ beautiful _ car, which is met with a lot of teasing and rolling eyes from Scott, while Scott organizes the mess he had made of his kitchen while making some stir fry earlier. Mitch is sitting on the counter where Scott had managed to clean off a spot when Matt comments on how  _ Charles _ would  _ love _ his car, and Scott turns to put dishes into the dishwasher. 

“ _ I’ve never been in a car before, but I’m sure it would be cool _ .”

“She’s the  _ best _ car in the world, Scott. You just don’t have good taste, I guess.”

Mitch couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive, laughing along in conversation and hanging out with his friends. 

Scott stands up from where he was trying to fit a plate in between a pan and a bowl, dish finally in place, and Mitch gets a front row seat watching his eyes widen, his mouth drop open with a shriek, his feet trip over themselves as he points at Mitch on the counter and almost falls over himself to back away. 

And just like that, his heady calm was disrupted by the sudden reminder that he didn’t belong, he wasn’t  _ alive _ .

Matt’s head shoots up and Mitch can see him frantically looking around for the source of Scott’s sudden outburst. 

“Holy  _ shit _ —he was  _ right there _ —” Scott’s almost shaking already as his eyes dart around, unable to see Mitch anymore. 

“You saw him?!” Matt looks excited until he sees Scott’s expression. “Uh, Scott? How  about you come sit down?”

Scott’s shaking his head and—and Mitch is frozen on the counter now because Scott is shaking— _ oh no, what did he do _ —

Matt grabs Scott and pulls him out of the kitchen, and Mitch is stuck in place as he hears Matt pull Scott out the front door.

Oh no.  _ Oh no oh no oh no what did he do.  _

Mitch is still on the counter.

_ Get up walk away new room breathe do you even have to breathe no it’s okay he’ll come back _ —

He’s in the living room now. The TV is on. He’ll  _ have  _ to come back to turn it off.

Before he leaves. 

_ He’s gonna leave.  _

_ Scott’s gonna leave and Wyatt’s gonna leave and he’s going to be alone again waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting for something anything alone again no no don’t want to be alone no not again no please no Scott please don’t leave _ —

_ “ _ — _ itch!  _ Mitch, can you hear me?”

He blinked at the figure in front of him. How long has that been there? How long has he been standing there?

It’s—it’s Kirstie? She’s not looking at him, not even close. 

She’s standing in the middle of the foyer—when did he  _ get there? _ —staring around the hall and down into the house in shock. 

Oh, and he can see why. There’s paper drifting through the air, the chandelier above them is flickering and swinging around, lights down the hall and from the doorway of the living room are flickering too. There’s a crushed lampshade rolled into the hall. There’s a couch in the window near them that’s been knocked over. The curtains in the window are torn, and for a second, he thinks the glass on the floor is from the window, before he realizes that it’s just from some broken lightbulbs in the knocked over lamp. 

_ Did… did he do this? _

“Mitch? I can’t see you, I’m sorry. I’m assuming that you’ve calmed down since that…  _ stopped _ .”

Mitch tore his eyes away from the chaos that the front of the mansion had devolved into and to the woman standing with her hands outstretched like she was talking to someone right in front of her. 

She knew his name. His  _ real _ name. When was the last time… 202 years. 

It had been  _ 202 years since he’d last heard his name _ . Could he cry? He might actually cry.

“Mitch? I’m going to go sit, alright? Come sit down with me, and I’ll see if I can hear you again.”

Yes.  _ Yes talk to Kirstie go talk. _

***********************

Mitch was sitting on a couch across from Kirstie. He’d just about yelled himself hoarse, if he could actually do that, just to tell her that yes, he did follow her in here and  _ yes _ , he was sitting on the couch with her. 

She seemed to understand vaguely where he was, and she directed her one-sided conversation towards his end of the couch, even though she wasn’t looking  _ at  _ him. 

“I know you’re probably very confused, and I’m really sorry that I didn’t do this sooner.”

“ _ What do you mean? _ ”

Kirstie took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she was about to say. “I have a bit of a story to tell you. I hope you understand by the time I’m done why I wasn’t eager to talk about it, but you really do deserve to know.”

What does that  _ mean? _

What is  _ going on? _

“I didn’t grow up in Palm Valley. I grew up in New Orleans, in the 1860’s.”

_ What. _

“I was hanging out with some friends at a bar on the edge of town, right where the bayou met the city limits, when a brawl broke out. I don’t remember much of it, just a lot of shoving and screaming, and then it got really quiet. I realized that no one could hear me asking what was wrong, and that’s when I  _ also _ realized there was a group of people rolling a body into the water.  _ My _ body.”

Mitch drew his knees up to his chest and found himself speechless at her story, something that didn’t happen to him very often since he usually talked to himself  _ quite _ a bit. 

“I don’t want to talk about my time sitting on the edge of the swamp. It was not—good. For me.” Kirstie took a deep breath and looked away from where Mitch was sitting. He wished he could do something,  _ anything _ . 

“Seven years ago, a man showed up. He said he had heard rumors of ‘ _ The Bayou Banshee _ ’. Me, the screaming woman. He called himself one of the last true voodoo practitioners—a witch doctor of sorts—and he wanted to help me. The man, Kevin, seemed to be able to see me, and he pointed out the bullet frozen halfway in my temple.”

She reached up and brushed her fingertips over her left temple, and Mitch’s eyes widened as he glanced down at the hilt in his chest. 

“I couldn’t touch it, but he seemed to be able to. He did some stuff, a ritual I didn’t understand, before he tried to remove it. I remember feeling pain when he grabbed it, like I was being shot in reverse. But then I woke up.  _ Alive _ .”

Mitch, in a surge of hope, reached down and grabbed at the knife hilt, but no. It remained as untouchable as it had always been. Disappointment rose in his chest and he dropped his hand back down in frustration. 

Kirstie gasped, and he looked up. She was looking him in the eye. 

“I can  _ see  _ you.”

“ _ Kirstie _ —”

“You’re really, really faint, but  _ there _ .”

Mitch reached out with one hand, and Kirstie reached up. Her fingers passed straight through his, but he could feel the tingly, hazy, numbness from the motion. Kirstie shivered a little and looked back at his face quickly. 

“I hate this,” Kirstie’s face crumpled. “I hate that you have to go through this. I hate that I can’t help you. I’m so sorry.”

Mitch shook his head. This was good enough. This was so much better than anything he’d had in  _ so long _ . 

Kirstie sat up and set her face, determined. “I don’t know if it would work, but you could always try it. I was thinking, maybe, if you managed to solidify yourself, or make yourself visible—maybe someone could try to grab the knife? I assume that’s how you died, anyway—”

He nodded vigorously, unsure if she would be able to hear him speak. 

“I don’t know if Scott would be able to do it or not, or if I would have to try? I’m surprised he even saw you at all, to be honest. I knew I was more sensitive—psychic I suppose—than the average person, so I wasn’t sure how well he could perceive you. You do seem to have more control over yourself than I ever did.”

Mitch nodded again. “ _ I can’t do very much. _ ”

Kirstie squinted at him. “You’re fading, I’m sorry. I only barely heard that. Just work with what you have then, I guess?”

“ _ I will _ .”

Kirstie sighed. “You’re gone now. I assume you’re still here, but I can’t see you at all anymore.”

Mitch sat back slowly and looked at his hands, willing them to solidify—to no avail. 

“I just ask…” Kirstie looked back in his direction. “If you do figure it out—if you somehow find your way back to life—please don’t tell anyone about me. I want my story in the past. I have a life now. I have a made up, spooky backstory that explains my sixth sense for supernatural stuff—and thank you for starring in it, even though I really didn’t give you a say in it before I made it up—and I want to  _ live _ now. I don’t want to be remembered or known as _ that ghost girl _ . It’s just my luck that I managed to move to a city with  _ another _ ghost in it.”

Mitch didn’t respond, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. But he wished again that he could hug her, squeeze her hand,  _ something _ to reassure her that he would  _ never _ . 

Kirstie stood up and looked around the room. “Scott doesn’t know I’m here. He called me and told me what happened when he got to Matt’s house, but he told me not to come over when I offered to check it out. I assume he’s going to stay the night at Matt’s, but just in case, how about we work on cleaning this up real fast?”

To his utter surprise, he was able to help Kirstie clean up more than he had expected. Kirstie had to take most of the big stuff, like moving the furniture back, replacing the lightbulbs, and swapping out the drapes for a spare set she found in Scott’s basement. Mitch was able to help by pushing the glass together in piles for her to sweep up, steadying the chandelier from its steady rocking motion, and organizing loose papers and other small things that had been moved. 

He was disappointed when he realized they were finished cleaning up and Kirstie was standing at the door with her jacket thrown over her arm. 

“I’d say we make a pretty good team, Mitch.”

He didn’t want her to leave. He sighed.

“I promise I’ll try to help Scott calm down about you being around again. I won’t let him entertain the idea of moving again.”

“ _ Thank you, Kirstie. _ ”

Her hand rested on the doorknob. “Also, before I go,” she grinned as she looked around the room for him, “I’m sorry for telling him your name is Charles. But it’s kinda funny.”

“ _ It’s bullying, is what it is _ .”

Kirstie must have heard him, because she laughed and waved to the room. “Bye, Charles!”

The door clicked shut, and he was alone again. Well, Wyatt was around here somewhere, so he wasn’t  _ alone _ , but still. Mitch stood in the window and watched get in her car. He flickered the lightswitch for the lights on the front of the mansion at her, his special little way of saying goodbye to her, and she flashed her car’s brights back once at the house before she backed out and disappeared down the driveway, back down the valley towards the light of the city. 

He waited for Scott to come home in front of the TV, watching Spongebob mindlessly as the sun rose slowly through the window. 


	4. Crayola Saves the Day

Scott may as well have just moved out. 

He could not be spending _less_ time with Mitch—uh, at _home._ Instead, he was finding a billion ways to either not be home, pretend Wyatt was the cause of any attention-grabbing mischief Mitch got up to, or flat out ignore him. He was _constantly_ wearing headphones and blasting music so loud that Mitch could hear it. 

Mitch was getting a bit pissed. And petty. If Scott was going to avoid him with every distraction he could think of, then Mitch was going to interfere as much as possible. 

He kicked Scott’s wireless headphones under the couch, and when Scott tried to use his backup _wired_ headphones, Mitch unplugged them as often as he could. As much as he appreciated having the TV on, it was different when he got to watch movies alone with Wyatt in the middle of the night. When Scott wanted to watch something, Mitch would turn it off. He also did this with the lights. And the fans. And once he figured out the thermostat, he turned off the air conditioning too. Other than that, he was confined to moving stuff around and just being an annoyance. 

His favorite had been when he knocked Scott’s car keys on the ground and Wyatt had grabbed them and ran off. Collaboration for the win. Meaning, their team effort made Scott late for a date. Not that Mitch was _going_ for that, or anything. 

As satisfying as that had been, he felt a _little_ bit bad about it. Scott was _really_ late, and whatever poor lady he had almost stood up must have been upset about it, ‘cause he came home all mopey and didn’t go on any more dates. Or at least, he didn’t _talk_ about going on more dates, to Mitch’s knowledge.

Again, not that he’s paying attention or anything. Because he’s _not_. 

Mitch was spending this particular morning flopped out on the couch in a lounge on the second floor, soaking in the sunlight across from Wyatt on the floor. He was entertaining himself by talking to the cat as if he was a therapist, discussing to an uninterested audience of 1 a variety of topics ranging from what he would do if he could live again, to how it bothers him that the knife in his chest was slightly crooked. Like, not quite enough to look like a cool aesthetic, even. 

If he hadn’t paused to pretend that Wyatt could respond to him, he probably wouldn’t have even heard Scott talking. He couldn’t really hear that well, but it sounded like Scott had said his name—well, his _fake_ name—from the kitchen downstairs. 

Not at _all_ eager to see if Scott was finally breaking his vow of silence, Mitch launched himself off the couch and slid down the banister railing, before racing across the ground floor to the tiled kitchen that, would he have been alive and wearing socks, would have made him slide into the far wall. 

Scott was seated at the marble counter, fiddling with the last few fries from his McDonald’s. 

“—and, I know I’m being ridiculous, but this is _so_ weird. Kirstie’s been trying to convince me to apologize at _least_ . So, Charles. What I’m saying is that I am _sorry_ that I freaked out when I saw you. And I’m also sorry that I’ve been ignoring you.”

Mitch sat down in the seat next to Scott. “ _I forgive you._ ”

“I guess I just kinda forgot that you’re like, an actual _person_ ,” Scott fiddled with an unopened ketchup packet before throwing it back down and laughing heavily. “I feel so weird talking to thin air. I don’t even know if you’re in here. I hope you are though, because I feel really bad about being a dick to you. I really deserved all those pranks you pulled on me.”

How was he supposed to reassure Scott that his apology was heard and accepted? He was _so_ over being mad. Mitch didn’t need much more than just the relief that Scott wasn’t still terrified at the thought of him, that he wasn’t going to move out at the first chance he saw. He had too much time on his hands to stew over his thoughts and have fake therapy sessions with Wyatt to hold a grudge against Scott. 

Mitch glanced down at the ketchup packet. 

...Scott wouldn’t like that. 

Oh, but now that he had the idea, he _wanted_ to. 

The squelch of it bursting all over the counter was very satisfying. So was Scott’s screech, then laughter when he saw the crude shape of a smile that Mitch traced in it. 

Mitch looked down at his clean finger, unnerved slightly (but not very, because being dead for this long desensitized you to a lot of weird things) at the lack of ketchup on his skin. When pushed it around, he could feel it, but when he pulled his hand away, none of it clung to him. _Weird_.

If he was willing to risk an irritated Scott, he could probably make use of the extra ketchup packets still littering the counter where Scott must’ve dumped the bag out. 

Mitch grinned and reached out with his fist clenched.

**********************

Scott was very divided over whether or not he liked this. Charles had really taken to this whole ketchup fascination. And shaving cream. And toothpaste. 

As much as he appreciated this new form of communication (and by communication, he means random letters and doodles), he was struggling more with the constant need to wipe off every other surface in his house. He was about ready to start carrying a washcloth around with him, or maybe a pack of baby wipes. 

Seriously, why did Charles find the need to cover his coffee table in the downstairs living room with _chocolate syrup_. Why. How did he even get it all the way in there?

He hadn’t seen Charles anymore since that one night, which he was… almost disappointed about. The glimpse of the ghost he had gotten was _intriguing_ . It had only been a split second, but Charles had looked… lively? For a ghost. Like he had just gotten out of an old-timey bed and sat on Scott’s kitchen counter. He’d looked like he was about Scott’s age too, so he could almost imagine him as just another one of Scott’s friends—and wasn’t he? He probably talked to Charles more than half of his friends, anyway. Of course, his _other friends_ actually talked _back_ , though. 

Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he sighed. His other friends also didn’t smear toothpaste in the shape of smiley faces all over his house. 

He really needed to figure out something else for Charles to do.

**********************

At first, Mitch had been offended. The “3+” on the packaging had not sat well with his ego. But then he had gotten over it, because this really did mean less huffy “ _Chaaaaarles!_ ”es from Scott. 

His brand new finger painting station was on the kitchen counter. 

Originally, it had been in the living room on the coffee table. Scott had moved it after one day, because Mitch had spent the whole day sitting on the floor, experimenting with trying to get his finger to solidify long enough to transfer the paint from the open bottles to the large pad of paper. 

What he had failed to realize was that, in concentrating very hard to solidify a finger at a time, he had been too focused on getting the paint to move. He hadn’t really considered how the paint was now forced to stick to his finger. And when his finger _desolidified_ , the paint would no longer have anything to stick to. And would fall. On the floor. 

On the bright side, he had been able to kinda feel the paint! Upon realizing the mess that he’d made, he’d promptly slopped out a _barely_ legible “SORRY” for when Scott came home from work and was confronted with the realization that he might want to wash the carpet. 

So now Mitch had been relocated to the kitchen counter for the majority of his interactions. (He tried to cut back on his other pranking, ‘cause he didn’t wanna be _too_ annoying, but he still made sure to pull that big rainbow flag in Scott’s bedroom off the wall every few days. Honestly, he didn’t know why Scott would want that _monstrosity_ of color hanging around so proudly, anyways. He was really doing Scott a favor.) Wyatt joined him occasionally in the kitchen for his “art projects”, sitting on top of the stone countertop and batting at the ugly mess of Crayola fueled madness. 

Scott was sitting on a stool, sipping a cup of coffee before he had to go to the studio, blinking blearily at the crude outline of a person Mitch had drawn. He seemed very confused at Mitch’s attempt to convey the message to _pull the knife_ he had tried to paint in his chest. The odd image was not helped along by any written aid, either, so Mitch was just snickering at poor Scott who was _really_ trying to figure it out. 

Scott seemed to have decided that it was a retelling of how he had died, which Mitch figured he might be able to work with. 

“So… is that the guy who killed you?” Scott pointed at Mitch’s attempt to paint _him_. “Is that a hat?”

“ _No. That’s supposed to be your hair._ ”

Maybe he wouldn’t get the message across. He needed to work on getting letters to look legible so he could write something. Like his _actual_ name. He wouldn’t mind hearing Scott actually say _his_ name at some point. 

“Hmm. I guess I have a vague idea of what happened then.”

“ _Well considering that this isn’t actually supposed to be a depiction of my murder scene, I would say probably not_.”

“I’ll be home late tonight. Going out to dinner with Matt and Kirstie and Ben. Try not to wreck the house, will ya?”

“ _That was one time, and we cleaned it up._ ” Kirstie has snitched on him when Scott found the ruined drapes in the basement.

Scott pushed himself away from the counter and set his mug in the sink. He turned around, and slowed to a stop. Mitch followed his line of sight to the spot of Mitch’s appearance above the dishwasher a few weeks ago. 

“Hey Charles? You wouldn’t be able to… do _that_ again, would you?”

Mitch blinked and stopped his attempt to paint a crude picture of a knife. Scott _wanted_ to see him again? He’d tried to make himself visible _countless_ times since he’d managed it in the kitchen, but he wasn’t very good at it. If anything, he usually just got a breathy word to echo in an empty bathroom or a shimmer of an outline in a mirror. 

He could still try though, for Scott.

Mitch closed his eyes and focused. He tried to imagine himself alive, to remember the feeling of blood pumping in his veins, pulsing just under his skin. The electric shiver that would race down his spine when a cold wind gusted across his head when he had been bald. The random twitch of a muscle jumping in his jaw, or his hand. The satisfying burn after scratching an annoying mosquito bite. The feeling of his hair standing on end when the uneasy feeling of being watched curled in his stomach. The tight, sore stretch of skin around his eyes after a good cry. The ache in his chest after laughing so hard that he was choking on his breath. The rough smoothness of another person’s hand dragging over his skin—what it would feel like to have _Scott’s_ hand in his—what it would feel like to be held in his embrace—

“Oh my _god_.”

Mitch opened his eyes carefully, trying not to disturb the painful craving in his chest for everything, _anything_ again. Scott was squinting at him on the counter, clearly not able to see a full image, but maybe just enough for a shadowy figure. 

“ _Can you s_ ee me?”

Scott jolted and his eyes widened. “See you? Can I see you? Oh my god, yeah. Kinda. Almost. I can see where you _are_. Oh my god. This is… woah.”

Mitch giggled at Scott’s continued squint and attempts to angle his head in different directions, as if it might help him see more. 

His laughter dislodged the precarious longing he had been clinging to, and he _felt_ himself fade. It was an awful feeling, between the disappointment in Scott’s face and the reality of losing sensation in his body. Like he could feel the air fill in between his non-existent cells and seep through all the empty spaces that used to be part of _Mitch_ but are now just air particles between bits of a trapped consciousness. 

As if the horrid rush of losing your grasp on a pathetic, half-life wasn’t bad enough, the cruel universe reminded Mitch further of his ghostly restrictions. It wasn’t uncommon for him to blink and have missed some time, but it didn’t usually happen when he was busy trying to communicate with someone. 

When his dizzy eyes cleared after the head rush of bodilessness, Mitch was disappointed to note that the sun was higher in the morning sky and Scott was nowhere to be seen. A hurried turn to the clock on the oven read 10:41, confirming his unpleasant theory that he had missed Scott’s departure that morning for the studio. 

He tried to ignore the pathetic little pang of sadness and hopped off the counter to go play around with Scott’s piano instead. There was no point in feeling sorry for himself for being _dead_. 

He couldn’t change anything about it on his own. About what happened that specific morning, _or_ to him in general. He’d made his mistake, and now he was paying for it.


	5. Pizza, Popcorn, and...

“Oh my god!” Lauren’s jaw dropped and she just barely caught her phone before it slid its way off the table. “So you  _ do _ actually have a ghost then!”

Scott grinned and plopped down in the chair next to her. “You thought I was making it up?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Uh,  _ yeah _ . Literally why would we believe you?”

He shrugged. “Oh I don’t know, Maybe because you  _ loooove  _ me?”

She sighed. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Are you ordering or am I?”

“I can, but you’re opening the door, then.”

“Fine.”

Whoever said you’d be best friends with your siblings when you were grown up was wrong. Sure, they could be  _ friendly _ , but there were still grudges held against who pushed who off what swing, or who ate who’s last piece of birthday cake four years in a row.

In his defense, no one ever said the  _ last _ piece belongs to the birthday kid, only the  _ first _ piece. And it totally wasn’t fair because Lindsay ate  _ his _ for two years, but he wasn’t still mad about  _ that.  _

Once pizza was acquired,  _ Ant Man _ was turned on and movie night began. Scott was just about to bite into a mozzarella stick (yes Lauren, he  _ knows _ they’re bad for him, but they’re  _ mozzarella sticks _ ) slathered in marinara sauce when a blob of said sauce went flying off and onto Lauren’s arm, just missing her shirt by a few inches. 

Scott handed her a napkin while berating the air. “ _ Charles _ , I swear I’m going to find a way to get back at you for all these messes someday.”

Apparently, Charles seemed to have an issue today though, because just as Lauren was about to take a bite of a piece of pizza, the slice was flipped out of her hand and onto her shirt. 

“No!” She jumped and grabbed the pizza quickly, but it was too late. The shirt had been stained, and so Scott, with a glare at the general airspace, offered one of his own shirts so she could have a clean one. 

He ran to go grab one, and froze in his tracks when he got back to the living room, t-shirt dangling from an open fist. 

“ _ What the fuck _ .”

Lauren was standing apologetically in the middle of the room, pizza sauce still on her shirt unsurprisingly, but  _ surprisingly, it was also on the TV.  _ And her iced tea was spilled all over the table, with a bunch of napkins doing their best to soak up the mess. And the remaining napkins were fluttering down from the ceiling. And, when Scott took a hesitant step into the room, he saw the missing pizza box flipped upside down on the floor next to the TV. 

And the room was _suspiciously_ _cold_.

“Charles. What. The.  _ Fuck.” _

“He tried to steal the pizza box.”

Scott looked down at the box by her feet. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

“Sorry?” she offered. 

Scott glared at the air. “Thanks, but I have the feeling that this isn’t your fault.” 

While Lauren grabbed the sinking napkins and started wiping off the TV screen, Scott set the spare shirt on his untouched chair and grumbled, “I know you like to prank people, but this is just mean, Charles. Really? Tug-of-war with the pizza box?  _ Really? _ You gotta be nice so the rest of the family can visit too. What kind of uncle would I be if I couldn’t ever have any of the kids over ‘cause my mean ghost scared away my sister?” The air got noticeably warmer at that. “Thank you.”

Lauren laughed. “This is so weird.”

Scott shrugged. “You get used to it.”

The movie had to be rewinded once the room was cleaned up, but there were no further pranks the rest of the night,  _ thankfully _ . 

**********************

Oops.

_ Sister _ .

**********************

Scott was sitting in the kitchen at the counter next to Charles’ Crayola mess, some concoction slow cooking in the oven thanks to Kirstie texting him a recipe that he “ _ had _ to make  _ right now _ ”. Charles was expressing his distaste for whatever it was that was in the oven by painting an interesting mural of what Scott guessed to be a knife and a sad face. 

“Well I’m  _ sorry _ , but it’s already in the oven. I’m gonna eat it.” Scott frowned and pointed at the shimmery air hovering over the counter by the paints. “You are literally  _ dead _ , dude. The most it’s gonna affect you is you’re gonna have to look at it.” He considered. “And maybe smell it? I don’t know if you can smell.”

A heavy sigh sounded from the direction of the paints. 

Scott threw his head back and laughed. “How about this, you pick something else that I can make tomorrow.”

The paint stopped moving on the paper. Scott waited, just in case Charles had left rather than just moved. But nope, he was still there, as evident by the cabinet door swinging open on the other side of the kitchen. 

“Do you want—”

A cookbook came flying off the shelf and thwacked down on the floor.

“Or—”

The front of the book slammed open against the tile. 

“Nevermind.”

The pages started flipping through slowly. Scott tried not to laugh when a page didn’t make it quite high enough to fall over to the other side and Charles would have to try again, but a few snickers made their way out. 

Turns out, you can feel the weight of an exasperated glare without having to actually see the glare-er.

When the pages stopped flipping, Scott joined Charles on the floor, crouching in front of the cookbook to see…

“ _ No way _ .” 

A faint giggle.

Scott grabbed the book and shut it. “No.”

“Yes,” a whisper from behind him as he shoved the book back in the cabinet and closed the door. 

“I am  _ not  _ eating escargot. Not a  _ chance _ .”

A breeze ruffled through his hair.

He glared at the cabinet door when it tried to swing open again. “Nope. My stomach, not yours. You can’t make me.” 

Scott ducked from the blob of blue paint that flicked over at him. “You aren’t my mom! You can’t tell me what to do!”

The faucet turned on, and in a quick succession, several drawers and cabinets were pulled open.

Scott narrowed his eyes and ignored the grin on his face. “So it’s like that?  _ Fine _ .”

It was  _ on. _

**********************

It all ends rather abruptly. Or begins, maybe.

A few days later, Mitch is sitting on the couch next to Scott,  _ Jurassic Park _ playing while Scott tossed popcorn in the air for himself to try to catch, then occasionally over at where Mitch had tried to show him he was by manifesting himself in a shadowy figure again. Wyatt was curled up on a pillow on the end of the couch, watching the popcorn go flying with an air of disinterest. 

When some guy on the screen got eaten by the T-rex on a toilet, Scott laughed and chucked another piece of popcorn at Mitch to “share”. Mitch, almost on reflex, reached up to catch the popcorn, and didn’t realize until he heard the sharp intake of air to his left that  _ he was holding the popcorn in his hand _ . 

His head dropped to his hand—his  _ visible hand that he couldn’t see through,  _ not even a  _ little _ —and he realized with a jolt that he could feel the couch too. Like,  _ normal _ feel the couch, not sort of, I’m-pretty-sure-there’s-something-here couch, or I-remember-couches-feel-like-this couch. 

He spun towards Scott, and wasn’t even surprised when Scott was staring right in his eyes. Oh _ , he could get used to that. _

He didn’t say anything—couldn’t really make his mouth work—as Scott’s eyes slowly dragged down his fully visible form. His hand was still curled around the piece of popcorn he’d caught, and he could feel the sharp edge of part of it digging into his tight grip almost like the sharp stare from Scott sweeping over him. 

His breath stopped in his throat when Scott’s eyes froze on the hilt in his chest. His eyes bounced up to Mitch’s, then back down to the knife. Mitch could see the understanding melt into his face, the connection between his crude drawings and constant attempts to explain “ _ pull knife” _ . 

Mitch barely breathed out the word. 

“ _ Please _ .”

Scott’s arm reached out slowly, so slowly but was it even slow? Mitch couldn’t tell, couldn’t think, as the fingers reached out and wrapped around the hilt. Closed around the hilt, actually  _ grabbed it _ . 

Scott’s eyes froze on his again for just a second, just half a second, and then Mitch’s eyes squeezed shut at the sudden, excruciating pain in his chest. He could feel the knife dragging against his ribs, crunching through the bones, ripping through his skin and muscles and it was burning and dragging and Mitch couldn’t breathe and all he could hear was screaming, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the movie or him—and that was the last thought he had running through his head before the blackness from behind his squeezed eyelids consumed him. 


	6. Bathtime is a Greattime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to whoever outed me to possibly everyone I know today. Hope you're having a good day, ya little snitch, cuz I'm sure not. 🙃 And a reminder to everyone else: please be careful when discussing private topics! (and enjoy! lol ❤️)

Mitch wakes up slowly. The first thing he notices, eyelids still welded together, is that there’s something heavy on top of him. Once his brain focuses on the fact that there’s something  _ on _ him, he suddenly feels a whole lot more awake. He still doesn’t open his eyes, just sinks into the squishy mattress and soaks up the weight of the comforter, which really isn’t as heavy as he thought it was at first. He keeps breathing slowly, trying to suck in as much of the smell of fresh bed sheets as he could. There’s a little ball of heat radiating near his face; he knows it must be Wyatt without even opening his eyes. 

He should open his eyes. 

The room is brighter than he would like. His head starts pounding the second he pries his eyelids up and is confronted by an open window with the sun shining straight past Wyatt curled up on the pillow next to him and into his eyes. He groans and blinks heavily, reaching out a hand to block the light from his poor retinas, but freezes, squinting at the opaque skin now in front of his face.

He sits up real fast—which is  _ awful _ for his headache—and ignores the dizziness in favor of staring down at his  _ solid hands _ . That he  _ can’t see through.  _ Not even a  _ little _ . 

He spends way too long just staring down, unbelieving, flipping them over, examining every square inch of them as if he was gonna catch them lying to his eyes and be see-through from like, one angle around a knuckle or something. They didn’t seem to be lying though. He could feel them, poke at his hands and rub the blanket through his fingers. He could feel the fabric of his pajama pants against his legs, the sheets on his bare feet. 

Mitch looked down sharply at his chest. His shirt was hanging torn open, much wider than it used to be. Or maybe the hole in the shirt just looked bigger because there was no knife. Just a thin, pale pink line down his sternum where the blade used to be stuck. He traced a finger faintly down the faded scar and let out a slow, shaky breath. 

The door swung open and Mitch pressed his palm into his chest, partially to steady his uneven breathing and partially to feel the newly smooth, un-impaled skin and the thump of his heart. Kirstie didn’t look up at him until she made it over to the dresser to lay down some folded clothes, but then she glanced over and did a double-take at Mitch’s probably horrifying expression.

“ _ Oh my god! _ ” She immediately went to close the window at his ugly grimace through the harsh light. “I was starting to get worried you weren’t gonna wake up at all!”

Mitch’s voice was gravely from a lack of use, and he had to stop and clear his throat to get the words out. “How… long have I been—?”

“Woulda been four days if you’d slept for like, seven more hours.” Kirstie was still staring at him intensely, probably thinking about when this happened to her. “How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

Mitch looked down at his newly solid limbs and tried to figure out what would help him out the most. Woah, how could you forget what being hungry felt like? Was he hungry? Thirsty? Too warm? Not warm enough? Did his throat hurt from talking for the first time since a billion  _ whatever  _ years ago?

“Um…”

Kirstie seemed to get it, going by her sympathetic nod. “Yeah. It takes a while to get used to it. Am I right in assuming you have a nasty headache? I did.”

Mitch blinked at her and nodded. It was weird hearing her acknowledge her own experience. She’d never brought it up  _ once _ since the day he’d freaked Scott out and torn up half the house, never once even hinted at any sort of ghostly related experiences of her own.

Kirstie slipped out the door with a promise to be right back with some “Advil”, whatever that was, and water, which Mitch could appreciate. The empty room and lack of staring eyes gave Mitch a chance to look at his surroundings a bit more.

He was in a guest bedroom in the mansion. Bed in the middle, window on the wall, dresser in the corner, and a small bathroom through a door to his right. Classic boring bedroom that he knew way too well after being here for so long. But it did raise another question: Where the hell was Scott?

That sounds clingy but if you just  _ ignore _ that part because Mitch is  _ not  _ clingy, thank you very much, it would make sense for Scott to be at his own house, wouldn’t it? Rather than Kirstie being here? ‘Course, Scott could be here somewhere—but he hadn’t yet experienced a tall, goofy blond flinging himself through the door to say hi, and that was really more Scott’s style than… this. Again, not  _ complaining _ or anything. He had absolutely no complaints about Kirstie, the whole seeing Scott thing would just be…  _ nice _ . Nice! Nice. It would be  _ nice _ .

Kirstie swung back through the door, looking suddenly very graceful on her feet—which Mitch would probably be very unlikely to be able to replicate right now—and handed Mitch two little round things and a small glass of water. 

“They’re pills, for your headache. Don’t chew, just like, swallow them with the water.” Okay, she was  _ definitely _ trying not to laugh, which Mitch appreciates, but still Kirstie. How quickly did  _ you _ adapt to being alive in a modern world? He decided he would let it slide  _ with a scowl _ because Kirstie was currently his favorite person in the world, assuming these Advil pills actually did anything for his head. 

Kirstie walked away to busy herself with the pile of clothes she’d dropped on the dresser, giving Mitch a second to figure out how to swallow pills. It took a few attempts, but he figured it out. He tried not to be  _ too _ proud of it. Swallowing pills could not possibly be the most difficult thing he’d have to learn now. 

Kirstie walked back over and sat on the edge of the bed with a smaller pile of clothes when she noticed he was done. “Okay, I was gonna call Scott and let him know you’re awake—he’s in the studio today so he asked me to stay over just in case—but you’re looking kinda pale and really overwhelmed, so I’m gonna  _ not _ . I have a change of clothes if you’d like—”

Mitch nodded quickly and reached out to snatch the clothes from her, dutifully ignoring her snicker. “Bath?” he croaked out hopefully.

Kirstie nodded. “Sure, I can get one started. I don’t think I’d trust you to stand up long enough to listen to me explain the shower right now.”

Kirstie let him sit next to the tub and dump bubble bath in while the water came pouring out of the spout, which made him giggle delightedly at the mountain of bubbles slowly overtaking the bathtub. 

When the tub was full, Kirstie turned to him with the soft smile still on her face. “I’m gonna put some crackers and some water in the bedroom, alright? Then I’ll leave you alone for a while so you can process. Just yell if you need me, okay Mitch?”

Mitch couldn’t make the grin on his face calm down, didn’t really  _ want _ to, so he just gave her a quick hug. He was still a little too loopy on being alive to really relish the feeling of a hug, but he could try it again later. True to her word, Kirstie left him alone to peel off the old pajamas he was never  _ ever _ going to wear again, didn’t even want to  _ see _ again, and slide his cold bones into the steaming water. 

He decided when he settled under the bubbles, just his eyes peeking out between the towers of foam, that he very much preferred the searing heat than the brief chill when he’d gotten undressed. It was just so…  _ different _ than the feeling of air flowing through his very core, keeping him adequately chilled at all times. The heat just seeped in though. It felt so sharp against his skin. Even though it was uncomfortable, it was such a demanding reminder that he was  _ alive _ .

He let the bubbles tickle his nose and the corners of his mouth as they hovered just over the water’s edge.

**********************

Mitch managed to wobble his way down the stairs after he eventually dragged his wrinkled and sufficiently pruned body out of the tub. Putting on new clothes had been an  _ experience _ and Mitch had reveled in every second of it. Also, petting Wyatt was definitely one of his favorite things now. That and being able to eat again, even though the bland crackers were lame. 

(Kirstie made a very good point when he attempted to raid Scott’s fridge when he made it to the kitchen, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in two hundred years, and if his vocal cords could barely keep up with his hoarse whispering, his stomach probably wouldn’t be able to handle pizza. It was still high on his list of things to do/try as soon as possible though.)

So now he was sitting at the kitchen counter, nibbling at a piece of lightly buttered toast while Kirstie talked about anything and everything she could. This kind of mindless, time-filling, mostly one-sided conversation was exactly what Mitch wanted right now. He had missed this.  _ So. Much. _

The only brief (and apologetic) reminder of recently being dead was when Kirstie had informed him that she had reached out to Kevin to get him a birth certificate and whatever so he wouldn’t have to worry about that at all. 

Apparently, Kevin  _ knew _ people—but Mitch wasn’t exactly sure if that meant he was forging stuff in someone’s basement or if he was asking the president herself to create legal documents. 

Honestly the impression Kirstie had given Mitch of Kevin didn’t really point it either way. Kirstie said that she’d never run into any problems with  _ her _ documents given to her by Kevin, so maybe he really  _ did _ know the president. 

This Kevin dude must have a really interesting life. Mitch had spent so much of his not-life just thinking about anything he could, and if he was still dead, he would probably create a long, elaborate story for him to narrate to the cat. But Mitch  _ was _ alive now, so he was content letting this Kevin live a life of mystery.

Mitch turned his head sharply towards the big window over the sink when he saw car lights nearing the house.  _ That meant _ …

He wanted to run to the door or the big window in the front of the house or something but he was frozen to his stool, one hand stuck to the counter, fingertips going numb from the pressure. Kirstie went to open the door, and Mitch could barely turn his head to watch her move. 

When he heard the front door open, it was like a switch in him was flipped, and he was stumbling out of the kitchen and sliding down the hall and holding onto the banister for balance when he reached the foyer. 

He just barely noticed Kirstie brushing past him and heading back for the kitchen. Scott was standing in the door, kicking his shoes off and leaning on the wall with a backpack at his feet.

Scott lifted his head while his hand was half outstretched to his backpack strap, probably so he could go dump his computer in his studio, but slowed to a stop when he noticed Mitch. 

“...Hi.”

Mitch blinked and opened his mouth to respond. No words came out. His jaw just closed, then opened again. They just stared at each other until Mitch managed to get words to form in a gravely croak. 

“My name’s Mitch.”

There was a beat of silence, and then they both broke into giggles. Mitch kinda wanted to ask for a hug, but no—that would be weird.  _ God _ did he want to, though. 

Kirstie didn’t stick around too long now that Scott was home, just staying long enough to grab her stuff, have a short, whispered conversation with Scott that reminded Mitch that he was no longer invisible and able to pry into conversations that he probably shouldn’t have listened to in the first place, and give Mitch a quick peck on the forehead at the door and a promise that she’d be back soon to hang out so he wasn’t stuck with Scott all day every day for the unforeseeable future. 

“Hey! I’m  _ fantastic  _ company!” 

Mitch turned with Kirstie to see Scott’s jokingly betrayed face with a hand placed delicately over his heart like a lady might have done back when Mitch was alive the first time. Kirstie cackled at him, complete with Disney villain hands, and backed out of the door. 

Mitch hovered at the door as Kirstie got in her car, and he hesitated before he could reach his hand out to flicker the house lights at her. He wanted to move on. He didn’t want anything that reminded him of being a ghost. So shouldn’t he forget about the silly little tradition? But Kirstie was still his friend. She was when he was dead, she is now. They’re the same people, just with a little new twist, right? So he should do it. He should do it.

A flash of light distracted him from his internal struggle. Kirstie must have lost her patience waiting for him to blink the lights first. Mitch felt a wave of relief that Kirstie had done it first, so he didn’t have to decide. He flickered the house lights, aware of Scott watching him back from the base of the stairs where he was waiting. 

He turned around and did his best to school his expression into something more pleasant that wouldn’t betray his brief identity crisis. Scott was grinning at him from where he was leaning against the doorframe to the living room next to the grand staircase. 

“What?” Mitch croaked out, already feeling his face reach into a more genuine smile at Scott’s own infectious smile. 

“Nothing.” Scott pushed off the frame and gestured towards the kitchen down the hall behind the staircase. “Do you want some tea for your throat? It might help it heal faster.”

Mitch nodded and followed Scott back to the kitchen. Now that he had an actual body, he didn’t jump up onto the counter like he normally would. Instead, he sat on a stool at the counter like a normal person, and listened to Scott talk about how excited he was that Mitch was finally awake, and how he made Kirstie go shopping with him for clothes that would fit Mitch two days ago while Matt sat around with Wyatt and an unconscious Mitch, and a whole bunch of other stuff that Mitch did his best to pretend he heard over Scott’s laugh every now and then and the way he kept aiming that beaming smile at Mitch.

Oh. 

Oh  _ fuck _ . 

Still? Mitch had kinda been hoping that it would go away if he became alive again. Like a factory reset could fix his little problem.

Well shit then. So that’s another thing he has to deal with now. If he managed to pretend the first time he was alive, he could do it again. 

Just watch: Mitch was gonna be the most heterosexual person Scott had ever seen. 

He’d never have to find out that Mitch was—

Mitch let himself be distracted by Scott presenting him a cup of tea so he didn’t have to finish that thought. He took a sip and gave Scott a thumbs up to reassure him that it was good, which Scott seemed very concerned about for some reason. 

“Well I don’t want to scare you away the  _ first  _ day you’re awake!”

“You mean,” Mitch cleared his throat, “I can stay? Here?”

Why did Scott look confused? It wasn’t Mitch’s house, he had no reason to believe Scott would let him stay after he woke up.

“Yeah,  _ yeah _ you can stay.” Scott frowned. “I figured this is as much your house as it is mine. I mean yeah, my name’s on the papers, but I’m not kicking you out—you’ve lived here longer than anyone else. It’s yours too—I mean, as long as you want. If you  _ want _ to go somewhere else, we can figure something out—”

“No, no—” Mitch shook his head, trying to conceal his relief, “I want to stay. Thank you.” The concept of leaving today was terrifying. He’d been here for so long, leaving was just… not yet. 

“Of course.” Scott hesitated, then added. “Besides, how could I possibly chase you out when you’re  _ clearly _ Wyatt’s favorite?”

Mitch looked down at the cat, twisted around his ankle propped on the ground. “Guess he just has good taste.”

Scott laughed. Mitch liked his laugh. It sounded so genuine and heartfelt, it had Mitch giggling too not long after. 

Mitch sipped at his tea as Scott started pulling bowls out of the fridge in an enthusiastic attempt to figure out some things that wouldn’t bother Mitch’s stomach until he got used to food again, with the suggestion of a bonfire out on the patio later that night. 

Mitch could tell he was gonna like this.


	7. Awake But Still Dreaming

He wasn’t sure what was more horrifying: dragging a knife out of someone’s chest or watching them collapse and remain unconscious for days—and it’s very obviously your fault despite whether or not this is apparently considered “normal”. 

Obviously, Scott had freaked out immediately, the horrid scream and deafening silence following it drop-kicking him out of his stupor, and frantically called Kirstie to come help. With the assistance of Kirstie’s level-headedness, Scott had carried Charles upstairs and into one of the guest bedrooms. When Kirstie had ducked out to make a phone call, Scott ended up sitting on the side of Charles’ bed and just staring at the little frown on his face. 

Charles looked… normal. Just like any other person, which for some reason, Scott hadn’t really expected. He wasn’t exactly sure  _ what _ he’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the little wrinkle in Charles’ forehead from his grimace. Scott ran his thumb gently over the little dimple, relieved when it smoothed out easily and Charles relaxed a little. 

Scott let himself zone out for a while, just staring down at his face, trying to soak in the sight. His eyes flitted down, and he noticed the thin red line where a trickle of blood ran down Charles’ chest, right where the knife had been. He let his feet move him from the side of the bed to the bathroom, where he soaked a washcloth in warm water. He tried to be careful wiping up the blood so it didn’t stain the edges of the torn shirt. He didn’t know if Charles would be upset about there being blood on it when he woke up. 

Kirstie—God, Scott loves her—was a steady voice of reason the next few days. She convinced Scott not to reschedule the rest of his week, seeing as it was only  _ Tuesday _ , so he could “sit next to Charles and pet his hand for hours”. Which he just did anyway when Kirstie  _ wasn’t  _ there to judge him. 

Scott had never been more glad that their schedules didn’t line up in the studio more often, so she was able to stay with Charles when he had to be gone and vice versa. 

They’d both had an afternoon off the second day since Charles materialized in his living room, and Scott had asked Matt if he could stay over and keep an eye on Charles while he and Kirstie went shopping for anything Charles might need when he woke up. Kirstie had said something to Matt that she probably thought had been subtle, but was quickly made obvious to Scott when Matt had sworn very seriously that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Charles while Scott was gone. 

He just didn’t want him to wake up alone and scared, okay? He wasn’t being  _ overbearing _ , Kirstie, he was just trying to be a  _ good friend _ .  _ No _ , it didn’t matter that he barely knew Charles, technically they’d kinda lived together for months now! 

So cut to his big surprise when he came home from the studio on Friday afternoon and was greeted by Charles  _ standing _ , clinging to the banister with one hand, right inside the front door. Kirstie had given them a moment of semi-privacy—as much as you could have in the grand entrance of a mansion—in which Scott had doubled over laughing almost immediately when  _ Mitch _ informed Scott of his actual name. 

Scott had done his best to help Mitch find some good resources to acclimate himself to the modern world and clear up any confusion or answer any questions he could. Turns out, there’s a shit ton of things that Scott didn’t know as much about as he thought he did. But that’s what a quick Google search was for. 

It took a day or two until Mitch’s throat could keep up with his talking, which was  _ conveniently _ not the weekend anymore and Scott was  _ conveniently _ not  _ home _ . But when he  _ was _ home, they talked and talked and fucking  _ talked _ . Scott loved listening to Mitch’s passionate voice—which kinda sounds creepy but he was fine with admitting it just to himself—and could listen to him talk about how different the world is now for hours.

And he did. Mitch seemed ecstatic to be able to talk and actually be  _ heard _ , and Scott was  _ absolutely _ willing to sit across the dining table, head propped up in his hands, and watch as Mitch glared down at the book open next to his plate, yelling about how long it took for Native Americans to be even just be granted  _ citizenship _ and flapping his hands around to make his point. 

Scott also discovered that Mitch, while being very vocal about anything and everything to Scott, so it seemed, was actually able to be  _ extremely _ , almost  _ terrifyingly _ silent, too. After the sixth or seventh time Mitch had said something right next to Scott and had Scott flinging whatever he’d been holding into the air and screeching, Scott decided it must be some sort of residual ghostliness left over from Mitch’s undeath. Mitch had considered the suggestion and muttered something to himself about “well I guess if she has left over…”, but when Scott asked what he said, he just denied saying anything and clammed up about it. 

Scott understood that, and he wasn’t going to push, but how could he still not be curious? It didn’t matter. Mitch just waved him off and assured him that he’d try to be a bit louder so he didn’t spook Scott so much.

To be honest, his absolute favorite moment had been Monday night when Kirstie had come over for dinner. Scott had been cooking in the kitchen, listening intently to Kirstie and Mitch in the dining room elatedly talk over each other about women’s rights. 

There was some sort of indescribable feeling—maybe he could call it an unidentifiable bond—between the two as they chattered excitedly. He wasn’t a part of it, but he didn’t feel left out. He was a privileged observer to witness the youthful delight in the other room. 

He smiled down at the meat sizzling in the pan on the stove top as he heard the bubbly laughs trickling in.

**********************

Mitch had just enough time to see the soft blue of Scott’s eyes before nothing registered from his own eyes and they must be closed and he’s taking a step back and they’re falling and Scott’s on top of him and he’s warm and heavy and perfect and there’s this bubble in Mitch’s chest and he can’t hold onto a single thought flitting through his head and

He shifts on the bed and turns his head and the TV is playing something, maybe it’s that movie  _ Mean Girls _ that Scott likes to quote so much, and the leathery couch is consuming his body and he is becoming one with the living room forever with the dead weight of a snoring Scott sprawled on top of him and 

Scott lifts his head and giggles “Gretchen  _ Wieners _ ” and Mitch grins at him because this silly man is so ridiculous and then Scott’s eyes narrow and Mitch freezes and feels the dread through each individual vein in his body and he jumps off the couch and barely gets his feet underneath him before Scott is walking through the doorway pointing at him with a massive scowl and Mitch is trying to protest and argue  _ no no he isn’t he must be mistaken that’s ridiculous  _ and

Kirstie slams the door to the fridge behind him and he flings around and she screams and points at him and yells  _ that _ word—the one that the high school boys had taught him about being a,  _ that _ —and there are tears streaming down his face and he tries to talk, to deny it but nothing comes out of his mouth Kirstie can’t hear him just yells that word again and he backs up right into a stool and he turns and

A claw scratches across his ankle and he looks down and there’s blood running down the landing and the grand staircase and the pale carpet was staining red and Mitch turns and looks back at Kirstie but she isn’t there and then he can’t breathe and he looks down and he recognizes Scott’s hand on the knife handle and he can’t  _ breathe  _ and

Mitch jolts awake and shoves Wyatt off his chest, panting. His hands are shaking as he grabs the bed sheets between his fingers and twists them. Wyatt huffs from the side of the bed and jumps down to stalk out the door reproachfully. 

Mitch has never been a morning person.

_ He is now. _

He squinted at the sun’s weak dawn rays just flickering through the curtains over the window. The sun was up, so it wouldn’t be unreasonable to figure out the coffee machine now, right? Coffee, then the shower, then try the piano. If the bedrooms are upstairs, and the studio is downstairs, he won’t wake Scott up. 

He better like coffee, ‘cause he’s got a feeling that he’s gonna be drinking a  _ lot _ of it.


	8. Let's Gather 'Round the Campfire

The bonfire didn’t actually end up happening until four days later. 

Mitch had spent the days and nights since his “undeath”, as they’d dubbed it, alternating between petting Wyatt, rolling around in the grass outside (when Scott was at work to preserve his dignity as much as he could), reteaching himself how to play piano with Scott’s old piano books now that the keys actually responded to more than a single finger at a time, and flipping through the books Scott gave him to catch him up on everything. 

Scott had told Mitch he could use the laptop that usually sat in his studio whenever he wanted, and had even created a whole new profile on it just for Mitch to use—but he didn’t actually end up unlocking it until Monday afternoon. And even then, it had taken him until Tuesday to work up the courage to try the “internet”. He was determined to get the hang of typing—and as it turned out, it wasn’t that different to playing piano—and then he quickly started devouring Wikipedia articles, too. 

Turns out, there was a whole lot of stuff that didn’t come up in casual talking-to-yourself-in-your-house conversations from the owners that had passed through every few years before Mitch chased them out. Like the vaccines. And the fucking bananas. And the  _ moon landings.  _ Or lack thereof? (Scott had just laughed when Mitch asked if they were real, and then told him the “Area 51” raid would have needed to be more successful to answer that with complete certainty.)

It was also nice that he was able to better understand what actually happened with women’s suffrage and the civil rights movement now. There had been a nice old lady who’d lived alone in the house for a few years, somewhere between 1919 and 1923, Mitch had guessed. She’d been very enthusiastic about the local suffrage movements, but Mitch hadn’t been able to figure out much about  _ national _ progress being made. He’d heard rumors about the civil rights movement too when that businessman threw those parties in ‘67—they were  _ so annoying _ but at least there had been gossip—and Mitch had just had to sit around and hope that things had worked out all right after he scared the man away. 

He’d been tempted to look up…  _ that _ too, but he knew there was such a thing as a “search history” on the computer, and he did  _ not _ want Scott to find out. Maybe if he could figure out how to clear the history, he would. But not yet.

On Tuesday night, Scott had rolled in from the studio and dragged Mitch away from the computer to try the pizza he’d bought on the way home around a bonfire that he was going to build in the yard. 

Mitch found it pretty funny that Scott thought he’d have to bribe Mitch with finally trying pizza to come sit with him outside. The crackling of the fire was so pleasant and warm and s’mores were  _ delicious _ and this was “epic”. 

Mitch realized he was grinning ear to ear when he  _ heard _ Scott’s smirk. “ _ What? _ ”

Scott shrugged, looking not very guilty at all. “It’s nice to see you smiling for once rather than frowning ominously at something.”

“I do  _ not _ .”

“Yeah, you do.” Scott settled back in his chair, still looking way too satisfied for Mitch’s taste. “You’re sure you don’t want to look into getting reading glasses for all those books?”

Well yeah. Not until Mitch had any way of proving his existence to an eye doctor, at least. “I’m fine. I guess I just know how to  _ concentrate _ .”

Still-smiling-Scott said, “Sure.” And then let them lapse back into a peaceful quiet, accompanied only by distant crickets in the bushes and the crackle of the fire. 

Mitch did his best to shift his sitting position occasionally, both to protect his spine from the wooden lounge chair and to keep himself awake. It wasn’t hard to hide his yawns behind his mug of hot chocolate, but he didn’t want to keep yawning every thirty seconds until Scott clued in and thought Mitch was bored. It was easier to stay awake when he was doing stuff than when he was sitting silently by a fire in the darkness.

“Can I ask something?” 

Mitch turned his head to see the already sheepish face looking regretful for blurting out a question. “Sure.”

Scott hesitated before continuing. “How long were you dead?”

Oh. Well now isn’t that just Mitch’s  _ favorite _ topic. “Waaaaay too long. I don’t recommend being a ghost, if you’re looking into the job. It’s boring and lonely and  _ boring _ . A whopping 202 dull years sitting around this fine mansion.”

Scott’s eyes widened. “Um… how did—is it insensitive if I ask—how did you die?”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “I got stabbed.”

He watched Scott struggle trying to decide if he should laugh or not, before he broke and smiled. Scott looked extremely relieved that he hadn’t overstepped any boundaries and offended Mitch. 

“I kinda meant more like…”

Mitch nodded. “I know. Oh, you know what else I know? That one saying: I’m old, not dead. I think that’s going to be my favorite phrase now.”

For how much Mitch knew about Scott from his time as a ghost and  _ Scott _ didn’t know about  _ Mitch _ , he was much more perceptive than Mitch had expected. 

“I’m assuming by your deflection that you don’t want to talk about it, and I  _ formally _ retract my question.” 

Mitch was grateful that Scott didn’t try to push. He knew Scott was eager to learn how an undocumented murder happened in his new house without any legal warnings before he moved in. (Kirstie’s encouragement of the local rumors didn’t count). But like… he was  _ never  _ going to tell Scott if he could help it. He could still remember the exact horror, the  _ anger _ and fear in those eyes when he’d felt the knife—

He never wanted Scott to look at him like that.

Mitch didn’t say anything, just nodded gratefully and turned back to the flickering fire. Scott filled the silence this time with a bouncy playlist full of songs that Mitch felt like he might recognize from Scott blasting music around the house, but not quite enough to know the words to. He found himself humming along to one of the songs that he actually remembered the chorus to, but just  _ couldn’t  _ remember the name of. 

He waited until after the song ended and another, slower song came on so he didn’t miss a beat of it. “What was that song called?”

Scott jokingly gasped and clutched his chest. “Born This Way? By Lady Gaga?  _ How _ have you not become a stan yet? She’s like, a solid  _ third _ of the music I play!”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “First of all, I don’t know what a stan is. Second of all, sue me,” (another favorite new phrase he’d heard on TV), “I’m  _ trying _ to catch up. That’s why I’m  _ asking _ who it is so I can listen to more of her.”

Scott threw his arms up. “Paws up, bitches! Ugh, I love her  _ so much _ . Queen. Legend. Icon. Saint for poor little closeted Scott years ago.”

Mitch just nodded along and pretended he understood any of the mess that Scott had said. “Sure.”

“No, I’m serious,” Scott flapped his arms around some more. “Literally a goddess. You can’t be queer and not love her music. I think it’s a rule. You  _ have _ to listen to her music.”

Mitch laughed. “Okay! I will, I promise.” He figured he was a pretty queer person—considering he’d literally been  _ dead _ for two hundred years—so if she was the singer for weird people, Mitch needed in. 

Scott seemed satisfied, and went back to crooning along to whatever this next song was. Mitch wished he knew the words or even just the melody so he could join in.

**********************

He’d noticed it sooner, but he’d figured it was just a recent habit Mitch had picked up. It was understandable, he supposed, so he didn’t say anything. 

But it had been a week and a half now since he first noticed. And Scott still hadn’t said anything.

He spun around in his chair to greet Mitch, slumped in the doorframe of his studio.

“Hey, how was it?”

Mitch opened his mouth to respond, presumably to gush about how weird everything was in the city now and if he’d liked McDonald’s or if Kirstie had just forced him to suffer through a classic fast food meal in the name of understanding modern life, but he didn’t manage to get any words out before a massive yawn overtook him. 

“I like fries, I think,” Mitch grinned, not acknowledging the yawn at all. Or the fact that he was leaning so hard on the wall that Wyatt could probably knock him over if he tried to stand up on his own.

“That’s good!” Scott tried to ignore it but… “Hey, um, when was the last time you slept?”

Mitch’s shoulders slumped a little and he glanced away from Scott. “Last night.”

He shouldn’t push it. He  _ shouldn’t. _ “...Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.” Mitch locked eyes with Scott, but Scott didn’t let himself get distracted by it. 

“Alright.” Scott sighed and waved his hand towards the computer. “Wanna listen for a while?”

Mitch had mentioned how he’d tended to sit and listen to Scott work when he was dead. Now that he was actually  _ aware _ of this, Scott had relocated a squishy little futon to the back wall where Mitch could chill and listen in if he wanted.

“Sure! Lemme go get my book.” And then Mitch was stumbling back down the hall, boots clomping heavily and fingers holding a half-empty Starbucks cup in a death grip as it sloshed around. 

Scott tried to focus on balancing these two guitar lines that just  _ wouldn’t  _ equalize and were  _ completely _ screwing up the texture of the bridge for a while. When he was finally satisfied, he moved on to another section where he couldn’t decide how much ambience he wanted, and turned around to ask Mitch for his opinion. But to his surprise, and honestly, relief, Mitch was fast asleep on the couch behind him, book held loosely in one hand and coffee  _ still _ in a death grip in the other. 

He was debating between trying to carry Mitch upstairs to his bedroom or just grabbing a blanket and turning the lights off for him. Before he could do anything, the sudden quiet from Scott letting his computer sleep must have alerted Mitch, because he jolted awake and sat up. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. Were you saying something?”

Of course Mitch would assume he was irritated at Mitch falling asleep on him rather than concerned about him. 

“No—Mitch, why don’t you go lay down for a while?”

Mitch’s face furrowed and his hands clenched around his Starbucks cup, book discarded behind him. “I’m fine. I think I’m gonna go for a walk though. Just down the road a little bit—“

Scott jumped up to try to grab Mitch before he slid out the door.

“No, wait—”

“I’ll be back in a little bit—”Mitch was slippery, squeezing right out of Scott’s reach and starting down the hallway. 

“Stop, Mitch—come back—”

“No! I’ll just walk to like Starbucks or something and I’ll be right back before the sun even sets, I promise—“

“Mitch—” Scott reached out and caught the back of Mitch’s shirt.

“Let go Scott—”

“Mitch, you’re  _ shaking _ .” 

Mitch froze. “No I’m not.”

Scott grabbed his shoulders and turned him around, putting enough pressure on his arms to make it clear that Mitch wouldn’t be able to pretend he wasn’t. Mitch tried to squirm away, but Scott tightened his fingers. Mitch’s shoulders slumped, but he stopped fighting. 

Mitch wouldn’t look him in the eye when he asked him, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I—”

“Try again. Please?”

Mitch toyed with the straw from his cup, still avoiding looking at Scott, still leaning as far back as he could without stepping back. 

“Mitchy…”

Mitch sighed. “It feels like—it reminds me of, um, fading? When I sleep. Missing time, I guess? I didn’t really have a word for it—why would I when I couldn’t talk to anyone? I knew what it meant, that’s all that mattered—when I was dead. Like when I would just blink and it could be hours later or days and it was awful and I couldn’t control it and it’s terrifying Scott, I  _ hate  _ it—”

Scott pulled Mitch in, squishing his cup between them in Mitch’s grasp. Mitch squirmed for a second, but Scott just tightened his grip. He almost felt bad considering how much Mitch was trying to wiggle away, but he was terrified that Mitch would just force himself to go for a walk if Scott let go. 

“Mitch, I’m so sorry,” Scott whispered into his hair. 

Mitch stopped trying to escape. He didn’t quite relax, but he was definitely leaning into Scott more than away now. Mitch’s head leaned down cautiously onto Scott’s shoulder.

He wasn’t sure how long Mitch stood there and appeased Scott’s need to wrap him up and squeeze the brains out of him, but he appreciated it. Eventually he pulled back far enough that he could look at Mitch. 

“Mitchy, I’m so sorry I didn’t notice. I wish I could’ve—I could’ve helped. How can I help? What can I do—”

“It’s fine, I can figure it out—”

“Mitchy…” He broke out his best puppy dog eyes. Mitch’s eyes flickered between his and he sighed and looked down. 

“I don’t know. Can we…”

“Yes. Whatever you want.”

Mitch’s eyes flickered up for a second before dropping again, and he started picking at his straw again. “Can we watch a movie, or something? Unless you wanna keep working, I can go find Wyatt—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m done, let’s watch a movie. What do you want to watch? Comedy? Cheesy romance? Horror? Documentary? Mystery?”

Mitch cracked a small smile. “I don’t care. You pick.”

Scott continued to jokingly protest, but ended up flipping on one of the old Addams Family movies to get a little giggle out of Mitch at the irony. Mitch kicked off his boots and perched precariously next to Scott on the couch, leaving his coffee cup on the table instead of bringing it with him. 

Scott kept his hands to himself, didn’t try to grab Mitch and wrap him up in his arms again. Until he noticed Mitch was shaking a little again. Then his arms developed a mind of their own and, to his surprise, Mitch didn’t try to fight him. He just let Scott pull him down and shift them around so Scott’s back was to the back of the sofa and Mitch had his back to Scott’s chest. Scott had his arms wound around Mitch to keep him close and from falling off the edge of the couch—which definitely wouldn’t be funny right now—so he used his leg to kick a blanket off the back of the couch and down on top of them. He couldn’t tell if the little shake from Mitch was a laugh or an especially rough bout of shaking, so he just burrowed tighter into Mitch and hoped that this was okay. 

Later that night, he woke up to Wyatt jumping up to join them on the couch. He shifted just enough to watch Wyatt curl up between their legs. Mitch grunted when he moved and he froze, not wanting to wake him up. But Mitch just rolled over, still in Scott’s arms, and tucked his head into Scott’s chest. Scott relaxed back into the couch carefully, and was relieved when Mitch didn’t wake up. He drifted back off with a smile on his face. 


	9. The One Time He Watches a Movie Alone

He couldn’t let it happen again. He  _ couldn’t _ . He couldn’t do that to Scott.

But dear God did he  _ wish _ ...

He’d slept all night and it was  _ so _ comfortable, and when he woke up, Scott had still been asleep and all warm next to him. His arm had been so heavy, he’d known exactly where he was when he’d woken up. No panicking over what day it was or who was there or how long he’d been asleep. 

But he could  _ not _ do that again. He’d managed it once, and once was an event. Twice was the beginning of a habit, and he couldn’t do that. Scott deserved better than that. 

He was so sweet and concerned about Mitch too, he wanted to cry. He  _ did _ cry. The next night when Scott had off-handedly mentioned that his door is always open if Mitch wanted company, or if he just plain couldn’t sleep. But Mitch had just waved him off and forced out a casual thanks and dismissal. He knew it was just courtesy, not a real offer. No man would invite another man to what, snuggle? For no reason,  _ in bed _ together. So he’d laid in his own room, feeling more alone than he had when he was dead, and cried into his pillow until Wyatt stalked in and claimed the other pillow. 

That doesn’t mean he’d stopped crying because Wyatt had been a comforting presence and chased away that horrible guilt and despair, no. It just meant that’s about when he fell asleep. 

He’d ended up dreaming about curling up next to Scott again—pathetic, right?—and had continued to have it plague his nightmares just about every day after. Mitch did his best to at least get a few hours of sleep every night, which Scott would occasionally try to ask about when he had rough nights and knew the bags under his eyes looked bigger than the suitcases Scott had brought when he first moved in. 

One day when he was over at Kirstie’s apartment in the city, he’d pleaded for advice on how to convince himself that sleeping was fine. Kirstie had apparently never had much of a problem though, and hadn’t been able to help much, to both of their disappointment. She’d tried making him chamomile and green teas to see if either of them helped, and he supposed they did a bit. Mama Kirstie had made him lay down and take a nap while she walked her dogs, which was nice. At least he was getting better at forcing himself to sleep, even if he still hated it with a passion and woke up several times every night. 

When he was awake, he did his best to fill his days with anything and everything he could to keep himself busy and catch up on the mountains of things he’d missed. Which is how he ended up having both the best and worst day of his life.

(This one.)

**********************

He’d been sitting on the couch in the living room just off the foyer, sipping a cup of some new “passion fruit” (whatever that was) tea that Kirstie had given him and scrolling through articles about global warming—because apparently  _ that _ exists now—with the TV playing movies in the background. He wasn’t even paying attention to what was playing until he heard the word “gay”. 

Then his fingers froze on the trackpad and his breath caught in his throat and his heart started pounding. The computer slowly dimmed and fell asleep, and he didn’t even notice, fingers still frozen mid-scroll. 

He watched the movie, frozen and terrified, for what felt like hours but must have been only like, 45 minutes. The main character, the gay one, was named Simon, and he kept emailing some other kid whose name he didn’t know who had _also_ _confessed_ to being gay. 

His heart went from pounding like an aspiring percussionist in a college marching band to revisiting the dead silence it had become familiar with prior to his undeath when he heard the door open. The computer fell off his lap onto the couch and he sprung up and flew around, ready to defend himself to Scott. 

But it wasn’t Scott. 

It was Matt. 

“Oh, man, is that  _ Love, Simon _ ?” Matt paused in the doorway. 

Mitch’s laugh sounded far too high and shrill to be casual. “Maybe? I wasn’t watching it, I don’t know—”

Matt did that little lurch like he was planning to keep walking, but something caused him to hesitate long enough to stop his feet. That something was absolutely Mitch’s laugh, when he  _ continued _ laughing after trying to deny what movie was on. 

“Um, are you alright, Mitch?”

“Me?” Mitch’s knees felt weak and he thought he might throw up. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Fine…” Matt took a step closer, much to Mitch’s dismay. “Are you sure? You look—uh. Sorry I interrupted your movie—”

“Not my movie! Nope! Ah hahahahaha—”

Matt looked almost scared now, and he took a step closer. “Do you want some water, or something...?”

Mitch’s knees finally buckled and he grabbed the couch on his way down. “You can’t— _ please _ —don’t tell Scott  _ please _ —”

“Hey—” Matt jumped forward into the living room and kneeled down on the floor next to Mitch, gracelessly curled up between the couch and the coffee table. “What can’t I tell Scott? That you were watching  _ Love, Simon _ ?”

Mitch could hear the words Matt was saying, but he couldn’t understand them. He was breathing too fast and the lights were too bright and he was desperately trying to listen to Matt’s comforting rumble but it wasn’t quite working—the rumble was just a little too low.

“Of course I won’t. You know he loves that movie though, right? He wouldn’t be upset, unless you like,  _ hate _ it or something, then he’d probably be sad—”

Mitch clung onto the offered hands; he was so grateful that Matt knew about how touch helped ground him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing in through his nose and out in little puffs through his mouth until he wasn’t quite so dizzy anymore and he could make out individual words again.

“Hey, you coming back a little?”

Mitch shivered and squeezed Matt’s hands, hoping that it conveyed the message that he couldn’t speak yet. 

Matt squeezed his hands back. “It’s not a big deal, Mitch. It’s just a movie. It’s a good movie though; I’m pretty sure it won a bunch of awards.”

Mitch made a sound like, “Hrngh?” But then the thought rattling around his head that he  _ really  _ didn’t want to acknowledge came mumbling out of his mouth. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“ _ What? _ Why would I—” Matt looked confused for a second, but then he saw the realization in his eyes. Mitch’s heart sunk in his chest. Now he  _ knew _ . It wasn’t just about the movie anymore. “ _ Oh _ , oh  _ Mitch _ ...”

Mitch hiccupped and then there were tears rolling down his face and he tried to bury his face in his knees. 

“Hey,  _ hey _ , no, it’s okay—”

“H—how is this okay?” Matt was still squeezing his hands, keeping him from pulling back all the way. 

“It’s not a big deal. It really isn’t. I mean, of course it’s a big deal—it’s who you are, it’s important—but it’s not a  _ bad _ thing.”

Mitch was clinging to Matt’s hands so hard he wanted to apologize, but that seemed like an unimportant topic right now. He wished Matt would just yell instead of trying to build up to it. It absolutely  _ is _ a bad thing Matt, why wasn’t he understanding that?

“ _ Lots _ of people are gay, Mitch, or other things too. Really, it’s not a big deal.” He paused. “Did no one tell you?”

“Tell me wh—what?” He was trying so hard to stop crying. He’d need to be able to see and breathe better if he had to—to run after this, or—

“It’s legal now. You can get married—they made huge progress on representation and anti-discriminatory laws the last few years—there’s a whole pride  _ month _ , now _.  _ I mean it’s not always great, there’s still problems—but it’s legal.”

“... _ Huh? _ ”

“Here,” Matt pulled a hand away to grab the computer, still sitting open and dark on the couch. He typed something fast, much faster than Mitch could do yet, and spun it around to show Mitch the Wikipedia page for a court case. Mitch skimmed it as fast as he could through the tears still sitting in his eyes. The case was called  _ Obergefell v. Hodges _ , and apparently it made same-sex marriage a Consitutional right—across the  _ entire country _ —a few years ago. His tears restarted about two paragraphs in and he grabbed the computer. He pulled it closer to him and did his best to read the blurring words as his scrolling quickly turned desperate. His eye catches on the rainbow flags scattered in the backgrounds of the photos, and something about it just looks so familiar, he can’t quite figure out  _ why _ , but it’s enough to slow his scrolling and remind him to take a breath. 

“I’m so sorry no one told you,” Matt whispered. 

Mitch’s tears slowly merged with laughter. It was more hysterical than genuine, but it was better than sobbing more. He couldn’t  _ believe  _ it.

He clung to the computer like a life-preserver as Matt steadied him. “Please don’t—don’t tell Scott about, uh. Me.  _ Please? _ ”

Matt looked affronted at the suggestion. “I  _ wouldn’t _ . That’s yours to tell when you’re ready. And I’m really sorry that, uh,  _ this _ happened. I didn’t mean to confront you like this.” Mitch just kept laughing. “I was supposed to just grab Scott’s flash drive—he’s in meetings all day and he forgot it so I offered to come grab it.”

“Go get the flash drive; I’m—I’m fine. A lot better than before.” Mitch clung to the sofa with his left hand and waved off a relieved looking Matt with his right, computer balanced precariously on his knees. 

“Are you sure? I can text Scott and tell him there was traffic or something—”

“No, no. I’m fine, I  _ swear _ .” Mitch waved again. “Go, shoo. Scott’ll be grumpy if you take too long.”

“If you’re sure—”

“Yes!  _ Go! _ ” Mitch laughed, this time for real. 

Matt disappeared hesitantly down the hall towards Scott’s studio. Mitch was  _ so  _ glad he still had a cup of tea—albeit, a  _ cold _ cup of tea—to sip when he pushed himself back up to the couch. 

Matt slipped out the door quietly with a brief shoulder squeeze. Mitch had no idea what he was gonna say to Scott when he got home, but he figured that was an issue for later. For  _ now _ , he’d only missed like, twenty minutes of the movie. He figured he should finish it, right? Or should he keep reading?

Eh, who says he can’t do both?

He grabbed the tissue box before he settled down, for when the tears inevitably came back.

**********************

Scott slowed to a stop when he got home, still in the foyer. Mitch was at the top of the staircase, bouncing on the balls of his feet with Wyatt sitting next to him, tail flicking in the air. 

“Uh, hi?’

“Hi!” Mitch bounced down the steps and landed right in front of Scott. 

“I take it you had a good day?” Scott scanned Mitch up and down, just in case there was something wrong he might need to notice. 

“Not really, but I am now!” Mitch continued bouncing his way after Scott as he cautiously went to drop his stuff off in his studio. “Can we order pizza again tonight?”

“Yeah, sure.” Scott was a little nervous now. “Should I be asking why?”  
“Nah.” Mitch wasn’t bouncing anymore, but that’s ‘cause he had Wyatt in his arms, pinned to his chest. Scott raised his eyebrows and slid past Mitch to go grab a sweater or something.

But Mitch just flounced along behind him, trailing behind him all the way up the stairs and down the hall to his room. 

Alright, so he’ll try to pry more. “Uh, what kind of pizza do you want?”

The hoodie half-way over his head kept him from seeing what Mitch was laughing at from his spot in the hall. 

“ _ What? _ ”

“Nothing!”

The hoodie was adjusted and Scott crossed his arms. “Are you laughing at me?”

Mitch looked offended by the suggestion. “Of course not!”

Scott narrowed his eyes and stalked out of his room and flopped onto a lounge chair overlooking the kitchen. He could hear the feet behind him indicating that his bully had followed him yet again. 

“I  _ promise  _ I’m not laughing at you. I just couldn’t decide between meat lovers or just sausage.”

Scott but his lip to keep from snickering at what he was sure was an accidental innuendo. But he couldn’t resist, “I’m up for either.”

“Half and half?” Mitch suggested, still standing behind him. 

“Sure.” Scott went to pull his phone out of his pocket, still dutifully trying to not look at Mitch so he didn’t start laughing at  _ him _ , but was assaulted by a cat being set on top of his head. 

His strangled “ _ Whfm da fffuk! _ ” was covered by Mitch’s snickering and the pounding of his feet as he scampered away from his crime scene. 

Scott pulled Wyatt down onto his lap and twisted to look after the disappearing figure down the hall.  _ Something  _ had Mitch in a good mood today if he was reverting back to his pranking. Scott scratched behind Wyatt’s ear thoughtfully. He wished he knew what it was so he could try to make it happen more often. Mitch’s laugh was addicting. 

**********************

What was going  _ on _ with Mitch? 

He was always grinning so bright Scott barely needed to turn on lights when he walked into rooms anymore. That’s not the  _ problem _ , of course not. The issue is that the grins always fade when Scott walks in. The computer—which really has become just Mitch’s at this point—closes and Mitch’s smile fades to a casual expression as he turns to greet Scott. Then everything’s like normal, sure, but Scott finds himself trying harder and harder to get Mitch to break out those grins again. 

He gets outrageously jealous when Kirstie comes over and the two of them disappear somewhere with only the sound of giggles and the lingering brightestness from the briefest appearances of the Grin.

He has no idea what he’s doing wrong when  _ Matt _ comes over and Mitch does the same with  _ him _ , but still not with Scott. Not that they can't be friends—of  _ course _ Mitch and Matt are friends—Scott just didn’t know they were that close now. 

But the jealousy from the Grin being exclusive to Mitch’s other friends cannot even  _ compare _ to that second day after the Grins started appearing. (The first day being the one with the pizza and innuendos and impromptu cat hat.)

He’d been looking for the missing computer charger that Mitch must have moved to one of the lounges when he walked in on Mitch and Kirstie clinging to each other. Mitch had been crying, Kirstie rubbing his back, but the strangest thing was—it seemed like a happy thing? Scott hadn’t stayed, and maybe he’d seen it wrong then—but Mitch hadn’t looked sad or upset. He’d looked really,  _ really _ happy, just with the tears added on top. And he hadn’t been able to see Kirstie’s face, but he’d assumed it was similar. 

Scott wanted to be the one rubbing Mitch’s back.

He didn’t want to pry, but he’d asked Kirstie the following day over lunch if Mitch was okay. And she’d made a weird face. Like, an “I don’t know what you already know and don’t want to say more than that” face. And then said “yes” and changed the subject.

So then did Scott do something? Was Mitch mad at him? 

He didn’t want to ask, because he  _ didn’t want to pry,  _ but he wanted to fix whatever he did. Whatever he’d done that had driven the wedge between them, apparently. 

Scott sighed and leaned back in his chair. Or maybe he was just overthinking it. 

Mitch didn’t act any different around him, he just didn’t do the Grins. It was pretty self-centered for Scott to assume that it was something to do with him, right? 

Ugh. But what did that have to do with the computer slamming shut every time Scott walks around a corner? Did he make Mitch uncomfortable about something, or was it just the casual privacy of not looking through someone else’s web tabs? 

And did any of this have some sort of connection to all the innuendos that cannot  _ possibly _ be on accident anymore, because there’s  _ no way  _ anyone who spends as much time on the internet as Mitch  _ doesn’t _ realize what they’re doing?

Scott rubbed his forehead. Mitch was sleeping over at Kirstie’s apartment again tonight, so maybe he’d have a wine night with Wyatt. 

He could stand at the window with a glass in hand and sip at it dramatically as he gazed across the city further down the hill, like a housewife pining for her husband to come back from the war.

Or maybe that hits a little too close to home and he could see if Matt was busy. 


	10. Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

“May I?”

It was an odd question for an odd scenario, Mitch decided. But as much as every ounce of self-preservation instinct in him was screaming to tell Scott no, he’d stay right here where they weren’t cuddled up next to each other—

“Yeah.” 

That sounded too breathy.  _ Goddamnit Mitch, act NORMAL _ . If Scott’s instigating the touching, then it  _ must _ be normal, even if it only is for Scott. 

And then big gentle hands were curling around his shoulders and tugging him over so he was leaning heavily back on Scott’s chest, with arms circling around him and pinning him down so,  _ so _ gently that he was sure it was done purposefully to keep him from feeling trapped. 

Fuck Scott.  _ Fuck _ him. He was so fucking  _ nice _ and  _ respectful  _ and fucking pretty and  _ considerate _ and always always  _ always _ trying to put Mitch first and he was so  _ angry _ . 

Why couldn’t he have been born with boobs? Then he would’ve been able to fucking  _ sit here  _ without feeling so fucking  _ angry that he can’t have this _ . 

And the worst part was: what if he  _ could _ have it—every  _ fucking _ day? And he was only keeping himself from giving into Scott’s constant invitations into his personal space because he felt guilty doing it without saying those  _ fucking words  _ first? Scott deserved to know before Mitch started wiggling his way into his arms on a regular basis. 

Matt had figured it out, and he’d managed to fumble his way through telling Kirstie—but he just  _ couldn’t _ tell Scott. The damn words wouldn’t come out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried. It was like his very teeth were trying to protect him from admitting it out loud. 

But he’d fucking done it once when he told Kirstie, and he could fucking do it again to  _ Scott _ if he could just  _ make himself do it _ . But it was so much more difficult trying to tell Scott than when he told Kirstie. 

_ Why? _

He trusted Scott with his life. This one or the last one or whatever he’d had in between. Even if Scott  _ was _ disgusted—and part of Mitch would always expect that, how could it not when that was his life for  _ years _ until he fucking  _ died _ —he just couldn’t see Scott kicking him out or yelling at him or anything. 

He was just too fucking kind and fucking perfect and Mitch couldn’t  _ fucking tell him that he was gay.  _

Days and days and fucking  _ days _ worth of scrolling through every news article and watching every Youtube video and seeing every wedding photo he could just couldn’t seem to prepare him for getting those words out of his mouth. Matt had helped direct him towards some better resources to learn about this “LGBTQ+” movement when he’d come over a few days later, (he’d struggled remembering all the terms for about one day until his sheer excitement and relief engraved the letters into his brain), and wow, he should probably take Matt up on that offer to learn some basketball to say thanks for everything, shouldn’t he?

“How much coffee did you drink today?”

Mitch blinked himself out of his haze of anger. “Uh, just a cup or two, I think…?”

He could feel Scott trying not to laugh. “You’re practically vibrating, here. Calm down, watch the movie.”

And abruptly, Mitch wasn’t angry anymore. Scott’s thumbs were rubbing gentle little circles on Mitch’s arms and he wanted to weep and cling to Scott like his unconscious mind always taunted him with in his dreams. 

But that would be a little weird for watching—what was this? Oh,  _ Back to the Future _ . The latest on Scott’s list of modern movies Mitch  _ needed  _ to watch—but  _ only _ as long as Scott was there to add his commentary, apparently. 

That was  _ not _ a complaint, he promises. It’s just a little hard to focus on movies when  _ Scott  _ was sitting right next to him, always offering a cuddle even though Mitch always shook his head. 

Until today, that is. 

And a few hours later, no matter how amazing the movie had been, (and no, he barely watched it), he paid the price. 

He was laying in bed, slowly running his fingertips over a snoring Wyatt’s head, and then—

Scott’s bursting through the door and yelling and he looks furious and it doesn’t look quite right on his face like Mitch couldn’t process it all the way and 

They’re sitting on the couch and Mitch can recognize  _ Love, Simon _ in the background and he can hear the words ringing in his ears, almost hear the echo of what he knew had just  _ finally _ made it past his lips and Scott was frowning but he didn’t yell, he only said, “Oh…”, and then he nodded and scooted back to the other side of the couch and his hands pulled out of Mitch’s and the warmth moved back and he was cold  _ cold _

Cold and empty and air going through him and he turned and there was the his finger painting station back on the kitchen counter and Scott was microwaving something and leaning on the counter and scrolling through his phone and Mitch screamed no  _ no no  _ not real can’t be real Scott look at me  _ Scott please look at me please _ and

Mitch’s hands go straight though Scott’s arms and he gasps out no  _ no no NO NO _ and he’s on his hands and knees on the kitchen tile and Scott’s gone he walked away and how can a floor feel so cold when you have  _ no body _ and

Mitch flings himself off the bed. 

Just a dream.  _ It was just a dream.  _

He’s shaking and clinging to the dresser, and it’s solid and real under his hands, but he still has that paranoia and horrible cold feeling under his skin. 

It’s too cold and he needs warmth and Scott’s warm and if he could ever convince himself to plead at the threshold of Scott’s room, it’s right now. 

His feet freeze when he sees the door in front of his face. He just has to knock. That’s it.  _ Just knock _ . 

He taps his knuckles on the door. 

There’s the sound of footsteps and then it swings open and Scott’s standing right in front of Mitch and he’s surrounded by this halo of light from his lamp and Mitch’s breath catches in his throat with a strangled whine and Scott’s face does a  _ thing _ and Mitch is dragged inside.

Scott’s not gentle this time. It’s more like he  _ thinks _ he’s being gentle as he pulls Mitch over and sits him right in the middle of Scott’s bed and throws a spare blanket over his shoulders, but is clearly thinking too much to consider how tight his hands squeeze and jostle him. It’s okay. Mitch doesn’t mind.

When Scott’s been satisfied that Mitch is warm enough in his little blanket cocoon, he wraps his arms around him and drags him into a hug. His forehead is heavy against Scott’s chest and all he can smell is  _ Scott _ and he feels calmer already. Scott presses a kiss to the top of his head and the rest of the tension in his body melts away.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there in the soft quiet before Scott interrupts.

“I’d like it if you stayed here tonight.”

Mitch nodded. It had always been a question before. Mitch couldn’t refuse a direct request. There was no way he would right now even if he wanted to. Ha, as if he would ever  _ want _ to.

Scott moved them again so Mitch was still curled in his little mess of blankets, but they were laying down and  _ also _ under Scott’s comforter. Mitch was going to get way too warm between Scott and all the blankets, but that was an issue for later. Right now, he just wanted Scott’s arm curled over him and his head tucked back into Scott. 

Scott let Mitch get settled before he pulled back and slid off the bed, flipping off the lamp on his nightstand and crossing the room to, Mitch assumes, change into something more suited for sleeping. 

Mitch let himself float in the strange, muddled mess of emotion as he waited for Scott to come back. His eyes drifted over the wall across from him, littered with photographs of Scott’s family and Kirstie or Matt or Wyatt and oh, there was one with Mitch too, right next to his big rainbow flag. 

He hadn’t been in here since his undeath. He’d always shied away from it and tried not to bother Scott, no matter how many times Scott reminded him that his door was always open if he needed him. He’d always said “wanted”, actually, but Mitch had translated it to “needed”. 

Anyways, his point was that it just looked so alive in here. Maybe that’s why he’d liked Scott so much more than any of the other owners that had passed through. Because he made everything feel so much more alive and home-y. Well he figured there were a few more reasons too, but that was one of the big ones, wasn’t it?

Scott always tried to help him when he got stuck in the past and needed to get out. He never questioned Mitch when he tried out some new, ridiculous slang he’d heard. He always supported Mitch when he fell back on his old habits or answered questions casually when Mitch was reminded that he didn’t know because he didn’t belong. But Scott always made sure he belonged. 

He had the inkling of a feeling that Kirstie might have had something to do with Scott always knowing what to do when Mitch revisited his ongoing identity crisis, trapped between wanting to be a new person and clinging to who he’d always been. His eyes drifted back over the rainbow flag and the wall of pictures for one where Kirstie was laughing into the camera. She and Scott always helped him find the balance between who he  _ had _ been and who he could be now. 

Wait.

His eyes flew back to the flag. 

Holy shit. 

Mitch sat up so fast he felt dizzy. Or maybe that was just his realization. 

_ Rainbow  _ flag. 

“What’s wrong?” Oh, and there was Scott, back on his side of the bed and trying to get Mitch to lay down again and petting his hand but Mitch fought off his concern and wiggled back up. 

“Mitch?” 

_ That’s  _ why all those pictures in his self-educating internet searches had looked so familiar. So comforting to Mitch, who was all too aware that he’d had two hundred years worth of stewing in guilt and self-loathing, who  _ should  _ have felt ridiculously uncomfortable after seeing so much pride content—but had only felt relieved and excited. 

“ _ Mitch? _ ” Oh, Scott sounded scared. 

Mitch dragged his eyes off the flag and back to his face. He tried to open his mouth, to say  _ anything  _ to make Scott look less worried, but again, nothing would come out. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay, okay? Lay back down,” Mitch followed the hand back down onto the mattress this time, “and just relax, okay?”

Mitch wanted to laugh—he was so fucking  _ stupid _ . 

“—I was just putting on sweatpants, I’m still here Mitchy, everything’s okay—”

Mitch’s mouth finally started to cooperate. “Oh my god _. _ ”

Scott’s frantic little assurances stopped and the hand trying to rub his back through all the blankets slowed. 

“What was that?”

Mitch turned his head to free his mouth more from Scott’s shirt. “Oh my... so stupid I swear oh my god Scott oh my god thank you thank you Scott—”

Mitch wished he could see Scott’s expression through his cry-laughter. 

“What did I do—”

“—I didn’t even realize and I pulled it down so many times, you’re  _ oh my god  _ Scott you’re—”

Scott shifted, trying to look around the room to figure out what set him off. “ _ What?” _

“Gay!” Mitch gasped it out, barely even able to feel proud for making his mouth form the word over the terrifying relief.

Scott blinked down at him. “Uh, yeah, I know…? What—”

His laughing had calmed down just enough that he was able to get a more coherent sentence out. 

“Because I was  _ so fucking scared  _ to tell you in case you were angry or something ‘cause the last time I did I got fucking  _ stabbed! _ ”

And that set off his laughing again until he was rolling away and trying desperately to suck in air at the sight of Scott’s horrified face. 

“... _ Huh? _ ”

“We don’t have time to unpack all that. Oh my  _ god _ Scott.”

“No no wait—”

“Another time.” Mitch waved him off. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to tell you—to come out.”

Scott still looked stunned and unsure if he should ask more. “Um, congratulations!”

Now that Mitch had started talking, he couldn’t stop, or really look at Scott anymore. Instead he talked to the ceiling and tried to wipe away the last of his tears. “Oh my god. That took forever. And I still haven’t said the damn words! It’s so fucking hard to get the words out, you know? Or maybe it’s different now I don’t know. I hope it is. I assume it gets easier the more you say it, right? I kinda told Matt, so that’s one. Got the word out to Kirstie, that’s two. Here, wait. _ I’m gay.  _ There. Three.  _ Oh my god _ . My heart’s beating so fast right now. I kept trying to make jokes so you’d ask or something, ‘cause I definitely know how to say ‘yes’—that’s easier than  _ that _ —but you’re too polite for that, aren’t you? I was so scared you’d be mad or something—”

“ _ Mitch! _ ”

“What?” He turned to see Scott still looking vaguely confused. 

“Dude, I’ve gone on dates since I’ve moved in here. I’ve had a pride flag hanging in here the whole time. I  _ told _ you about being in the closet!”

Mitch blinked at him. “ _ When? _ ”

“When we had that bonfire! I told you Lady Gaga was a queer icon!”

“Queer means  _ gay now?! _ ”

They stared at each other dumbfounded for just a few seconds too long before they both broke out laughing. 

“We’re such a mess!” Scott wiped at his eyes. 

“You mean me?” Mitch grinned, and his stomach did a weird clenchy thing when Scott grinned back. “No, it’s okay, you can say it.”

Scott flopped down on the pillows and rubbed his hands down his face. 

Mitch hesitated before he joined him. “Hey, uh… Can I still stay?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking about Scott’s room or clarifying about the mansion.

The smile faded off of Scott’s face and he looked deadly serious when he stared Mitch in the eye. “Yes. Always.” 

Then Scott was pulling him down next to him and Mitch nuzzled his nose back into Scott’s collarbone. Well, he might end up worming his way into Scott’s room more often than he’d like to admit now.

Like, as often as he can convince Scott to let him in. 

In the words of that meme lady: this sparks joy. 

Scott mumbled something into his hair. 

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m gonna buy a hot tub.”

Mitch started giggling again, which immediately got  _ Scott  _ giggling too. Yeah, it was gonna be  _ that _ kind of sleepover, wasn’t it?

No complaints here.


	11. Happy Deathday!

Remember that time Scott decided he wasn’t going to stand at the window and pine after Mitch like a housewife whose husband went to war? And then he went to Matt’s house instead?

Yeah, well. About that…

First thing’s first: the whole going to Matt’s house had turned into a pretty regular event. He hadn’t really planned it to be, but it kinda just happened. 

The thing was, Mitch kept feeding him little excuses for why he needed to sleep in Scott’s room, with Scott. And that was Scott’s favorite thing in the  _ world _ . But also, it was driving him insane. 

Not because he was sick of having Mitch in there, not at  _ all _ . He had just been getting ready for the inevitable day when Mitch  _ stopped _ . Because he’d never ever ever wanted that to happen, but he hadn’t had a clue how to tell Mitch that. Or even just tell him that he didn’t need to come up with excuses to be there.

Because, when he had gone to Matt’s house the first time to whine about it, Matt had pointed out that Mitch had grown up with a very different social outlook on being gay than Scott had. Which Scott hadn’t even  _ thought _ of. 

Which also meant that Mitch probably didn’t realize that Scott had been high-key flirting with him since he’d come out. (He figured low-key would be better applied to his flirting  _ pre _ -coming out.) Which  _ also _ meant that Mitch probably thought that Scott was just trying to be supportive of Mitch coming out, and not  _ interested _ . 

Interested was not nearly a strong enough word anymore.

So, Scott had turned his disappearances to Matt’s house to moan over his stupid not-so-little crush to a tri-weekly event,  _ at least _ . 

Which had prompted, four days ago, Mitch asking where he was going all the time. 

And Scott, in all his endless genius, hadn’t wanted to accidentally confess the details in case Mitch asked Matt about it and inevitably got uncomfortable—or God forbid—asked to come with. 

So he’d oversimplified it. 

He’d said, “I’m… talking with—a guy.”

And Mitch had said, “ _ Oh _ ... okay.” 

And walked away.

Scott had replayed what he’d said to make Mitch’s face fall and make that plastic smile plaster on top. He’d wanted to scream and smack his face into his hands and run back after Mitch, but it was too late. The damage had been done. 

Mitch stopped crawling into his bed that night, and hadn’t returned since. 

So cut to today, where he was standing at the window of the second floor’s lounge, overlooking the yard and patio, with wine in hand. Eyes glued to Mitch, sitting alone in the hot tub, facetiming with Kirstie on his new phone over the side.

He was doing his best to remember that he got the hot tub in case Mitch needed something warm and Scott couldn’t be there— _ not _ so Scott could ogle his best friend.

Is this what Mitch felt like those first days after his undeath? Exhausted and lonely and fairly terrified?

He needs to talk to Mitch at some point and apologize. For being a dumbass. And if at all possible, tell Mitch how he feels already, even if all it does is clear the air between them a bit. 

He also needs to  _ stop being a creep _ , watching Mitch laugh on the phone from the window. 

_ Okay, but he’s not wearing a shirt _ …  _ He’s in the  _ hot tub _. _

Exactly. What if he was the one watching  _ you _ with your shirt off?

_...Ooooh _ ...

Yeah, that didn’t help. Fine. He’d compromise for the sake of his own conscience. He’d walk away once his wine was gone. 

He glanced down at the half-empty wine bottle in his hand. 

Well, he’s not doing anything tomorrow. Just a  _ little _ bit longer...

**********************

Mitch was standing in the kitchen with one arm cocked on his hip when Scott walked in. He watched as Scott slowed to a halt, breakfast bar between them with the little cake sitting in the middle. Scott’s eyes flickered down to the cake, reading the three big candles spelling out “203”, and flew back up to Mitch’s eyes.

“Oh my god, is it your birthday?!” Scott looked stricken at the realization that he had no clue when Mitch’s birthday was. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s not my birthday.”

Scott looked lost. “Oh. Then uh…”

“It’s my deathday.” 

Scott looked back down at the cake, and Mitch saw the understanding melt into his face. “Oh! Happy deathday!” He tried to come closer, probably to give Mitch a hug, but Mitch glared at him and shook his head before he could make it around the bar. Poor Scott looked  _ so _ confused now.

“Is this not a celebration then?”

“No, it is.” Mitch hardened his glare. “You’re just in trouble.”

“Oh.”

Scott looked guilty already, but Mitch hadn’t even told him what he was mad about yet.

“So I had my two  _ bestest _ friends—” Mitch ignored the little droop in Scott’s eyes, “—knock on the front door this morning after you went to work. To my great astonishment, Matt and Kirstie had remembered my deathday and had come over to celebrate!”

“I’m sorry! You’ve never told me about it and I tried to ask I’m sorry I didn’t know it was a big deal I would’ve asked more—”

Mitch huffed. “Scott, this isn’t what I’m mad about. I know I haven’t told you.  _ Shush _ .”

Scott sealed his lips shut and went back to looking nervous and guilty on the other side of the counter. 

“As it would turn out, the two of them are very invested in my love life—or rather, lack thereof.  _ No _ —” He pointed a finger at Scott’s open mouth. “It’s not your turn yet. I promise I will give you a chance to speak in a second.”

Scott’s mouth sealed shut again.

“My dearest Matt informed me a certain  _ someone _ has been spending quite a bit of time at his house recently.” And there was the guilt coming back out full force in Scott’s shuffling. “And Kirstie helped interpret that statement for me.  _ Now _ , do you have anything you’d like to say before I continue?”

Scott was  _ ready _ . “I’m sorry I’m really really sorry I didn’t mean to Mitchy I’m sorry I had no idea how it sounded but then it was too late and—”

Mitch held up his hand and Scott stopped abruptly. “My turn again.” He savored the twist of irritation in Scott’s expression at being forced to stop apologizing again. 

“Backstory time. It is  _ well _ overdue.” He managed to contain his laugh with an eye roll when Scott plopped down on one of the bar stools.

“So, 203 years ago today, I was standing right here. Did you know this used to be the governor's mansion? Probably. Anyways, the governor’s son was standing across from me. Right over there.” Mitch watched Scott’s eyes track his thumb pointing behind him. 

“We were... friends. Both from wealthy families in the area. We saw each other quite often. Our families would throw big, lavish parties and, neither of us being very fond of small talk and so-and-so’s scandals, we’d hide all evening and talk to each other instead.” Scott was listening very attentively. It was almost difficult to keep talking under that open gaze, but Mitch had rehearsed the words so many times. He needed to say it.

“We’d go sit in the basement and drink our stolen champagne and talk about running away from all this. You can probably figure out where this is going.”

Mitch took a deep breath.

“Exactly 203 years ago, I was staying with him while his family was gone. It was just the two of us. There weren’t even any maids or butlers here yet. We were standing here in the kitchen one morning. He was making us breakfast. And I kissed him.”

Scott’s face twitched.

“He didn’t like that?” Scott sounded entirely too blank.

Mitch nodded. “He didn’t like that. I tried to apologize. I told him I thought it was a mutual thing, but maybe I should have told him I slipped instead. He was offended that I would even  _ think  _ that of him—” Mitch took another breath. Two hundred years later and he could still feel the spit hit his face from the screaming. 

“He had a knife in his hand. One swing and it was in my chest. He looked terrified at what he’d done, and ran out. I died alone on his kitchen floor. I got to watch two butlers come in,  _ hours _ later before anyone else could arrive, and take my body away.”

The words were bitter as Mitch spat them out, and Scott’s face was appropriately twisted. It looked like he was actively biting his tongue, and possibly in a bit of pain from it.

“I’m buried in the backyard, under that big oak tree. It could’ve been a nice place to be buried, I think. ‘Course, it wasn’t  _ that _ great watching the aftermath of my death. I got to see him tell my family that I’d  _ assaulted _ him. He paid off my family to cover up my death. My very  _ existence.  _ You can look it up. There’s no record of a Grassi son anymore.”

Scott’s mouth formed the shape of his last name, like he was practicing it, committing it to memory.

“I got to watch him live in this house until he was married. He had two daughters with his wife. They could see me sometimes when they were young. I played with them in the yard, and I laughed so hard when they told him that ‘Mitch’ was having a tea party with them. He moved out pretty quickly after that. And I decided it was my house then.”

“The house was abandoned for decades. I sat alone on the roof and watched the city for years. Until another young family moved in. And then I scared them away. I was jealous they could have a life. A  _ family _ , in  _ my _ house. Like they didn’t know what had happened in that kitchen. I was a menace for the owners. I didn’t calm down for probably the first century or so. Those rumors Kirstie told you about? The ones from the city that talk about the demon in this house? I deserved that.”

Scott shook his head. The wateriness in his eyes got blinked back harshly.

“But then you came along. Scott, I  _ hated _ you for a while. I hated everything that you stood for. A bachelor with enough money for a mansion and enough friends to fill it every night. Except that you talked to me. You and your damn cat and then eventually your friends all acknowledged me. I couldn’t make myself manifest until you got here, Scott. Then you started talking to me and the house wasn’t  _ mine  _ anymore _ , _ it was  _ ours _ . I remembered how it felt to be human.”

He let his story settle in the quiet kitchen and glanced down at his other hand, hidden beneath the counter from Scott. 

“Do you remember when I told you that I was waiting for you to ask me if I was gay so I could just say yes? Because I was too scared to just tell you myself?”

Scott nodded. 

Mitch raised his eyebrows. 

“What?”

“Are you going to ask me?”

Scott frowned. “But you already told me—”

“Not  _ that _ ,” Mitch sighed. “It’s a different question. Matt and Kirstie explained it to me this morning, because I was too busy dreaming about it to realize that I didn’t need to be.”

Scott furrowed his eyebrows. “What question? How am I supposed to know what question to ask when you won’t tell me—”

Mitch had a lot of patience. Two hundred years had taught him that, if nothing else. 

“Come here.”

Scott jumped up from the stool and slid around the counter as Mitch tucked his hand behind his back. 

“Close your eyes.” 

Scott did. Mitch reached out with his left hand and curled his fingers around Scott’s wrist. He pulled his hand up and flipped it over. Scott straightened his fingers. Mitch watched Scott’s face as he set the handle in Scott’s hand. 

There was no recognition at first. Mitch curled Scott’s fingers around the wood and turned his hand so the very tip rested against Mitch’s chest, right over the scar. 

Scott sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes flew open. He tried to tug his hand back, to pull the blade away from Mitch’s skin. But Mitch still had his hand wrapped around Scott’s on the hilt, so the knife stayed where it was.

“Scott.” Scott’s eyes were still locked on his. Mitch tried to let everything he couldn’t say yet bleed into his words. “I  _ trust _ you.”

The last time he had stood here, felt this knife pressing into his chest, he had been frozen with fear and hatred and regret. This time—it wasn’t like he was even in the same house. This  _ wasn’t _ the same house anymore. This wasn’t just making new memories to cover up the terrible old ones—it was literally as if this entire mansion had been replaced with Scott’s presence. 

Last time, it had been terror and resignation for his own fate. This time it was calm and —not _excited_ , no. There was no rush, Intrigue, maybe, No worry or discomfort in the slightest, just perhaps, _restlessness_. To see how this will end.   
There was only one way to find out.

Mitch took his hand off Scott’s. Scott looked down at the knife, and then back up at Mitch. Then down again. Scott’s eyes widened. Mitch could see him understanding what Mitch was asking. What Mitch was asking  _ him _ to ask.

_ Finally. _

The knife was moved, transferred to the other hand, and then carefully set on the counter. Scott’s hands came back up towards Mitch. One didn’t settle yet, while the other lightly traced over where the scar was set.

Scott’s eyes were still on his. “May I?”

And Mitch breathed out, “Yes.”


	12. Every Kiss Begins With Cake

Scott’s heart was beating so fast, he was sure Mitch could hear it.

This was it.  _ This was it.  _

He curled the fingers over Mitch’s scar into his shirt. His other hand came up to cup Mitch’s jaw. He smoothed his thumb down the skin, trailed it behind Mitch’s ear, rested his hand at the base of Mitch’s neck, where the fine hair tickled his fingertips. 

Mitch looked amused. He didn’t say anything to hurry Scott up, just let him drag his fingers around and probably look very stupid next to this goddess.

Hopefully soon to be  _ his _ goddess. 

Very possibly  _ already _ his goddess, and he just didn’t notice because he was too busy moping around and thinking about his goddess. 

His beautiful, brave Mitchy who was gonna start laughing at him if he started crying right now. 

So instead he just tugged gently on the back of Mitch’s neck and Mitch followed, rolling up on his toes so he could meet Scott leaning down in the middle.

Okay, it wasn’t the most exciting kiss. Don’t get him wrong—it was  _ absolutely _ a great kiss—but it was really just lips brushing together.

Scott didn’t exactly want to jump into making out hardcore, ‘cause like, this was absolutely already a stretch for Mitch right now and he was _not_ going to push him. _Especially_ when Mitch had _just_ spilled his guts to Scott about _his_ _murder_. But this kind of kiss was just such a different experience than the normal “blargh—tongues!” experience that every hookup ever had taught Scott about.

This was the kind of kiss that wasn’t  _ just _ a kiss, you know? Yes this is going to sound cheesy, so just deal with it. 

It’s the kind where you can feel the other person’s breath against yours. Each little twitch of their lips. You can run your hands across their skin and feel their little shiver when you brush somewhere they’re ticklish. So you can do it again to make them shiver another time and break out in goosebumps. And then you can feel the pinch on your ribs when they don’t want to break away to tell you off for tickling them.

So as much as it wasn’t a kiss that Scott was very familiar with, he figured it could be even better than your typical tonsil tennis. Assuming that it was Mitch whom he was kissing. That could definitely be considered an important aspect. 

Scott kept himself from chasing after Mitch’s lips when he pulled back (mostly). It was easier to pull back once his eyes cracked open and he saw the frown on Mitch’s face. That wasn’t supposed to be there.

Mitch looked as guilty as Scott had felt a few minutes previously. “I’m sorry—“

“Nope.” That wasn’t happening. “You don’t get to be sorry about any of that.”

Mitch glared at him. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Scott set his chin stubbornly. “If I don’t get to apologize for random stuff, then you don’t get to apologize for that.”

Mitch huffed. “I was  _ gonna  _ apologize about not being very experienced—“

“Literally what did I just say.”

“—but I suppose that’s your problem now, not mine.”

“Honey, I got 99 problems but dat ain’t one.”

Scott grinned when Mitch’s nostrils flared, betraying his well-controlled irritation.

“And I was  _ also _ going to apologize—“

“Mitch.”

“—because I think I’m gonna need to take this slow—“

“Yeah, still not seeing a need for an apology here.“

“Oh my god,” Mitch muttered and threw his hands up. “Fine. I’m getting cake then.”

Scott felt pretty smug for a few, very nice seconds, until—

“Wait!”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Don’t use  _ that _ knife! Here—“

Mitch ignored his attempts to find a different knife—a  _ food _ knife, not a  _ hurt Mitchy _ knife.

“Why can’t I use this one? It’s clean!”

“Because it’s—probably dull!”

“It’s for a  _ cake _ . It’s  _ fine _ . My knife, my cake.”

Scott groaned when Mitch sliced into the cake. 

“ _ It’s fine _ , Scott. It’s a perfectly good knife.”

“I  _ guess, _ but it’s an  _ evil _ knife.”

“I’m not mad at the knife. It’s supposed to stab stuff and it can  _ definitely _ do that.”

Scott took the plate with a slice on it that Mitch handed to him. “But  _ Mitchy— _ “

Mitch sighed heavily. “Just eat your damn cake.”

**********************

Mitch was frowning down at the bedsheets intensely. Scott bit back a laugh when Mitch started tipping to the side and had to lean one of his hands on the bed to keep himself from falling over. 

“Just lay down. I’ll be right back—”

Mitch’s head shot up and his eyes latched on Scott like he’d forgotten Scott was there.

“Scott!” he hissed. 

Scott leaned on the doorframe. “Mhm?”

“‘M I a zombie?”

Scott blinked and shook his head a little. Drunk Mitch was  _ something _ . 

“Are you a  _ zombie _ ?” he clarified. 

Mitch nodded, still frowning like he was stuck learning calculus. 

“I don’t think so…” Scott rested his head on the doorframe. “Unless you  _ want  _ to be a zombie. Then yeah, sure—”

“ _ Nooooo _ —”

“Okay, not a zombie.” Scott bit his lip. “Can you lay down for me, Mitchy? Then I’ll go get you some water and you can go to sleep, alright?”

Mitch smiled down at the bed and made no move to lay down. “ _ Mitchy _ .”

Scott rolled his eyes and left for the kitchen. The knife was still sitting in the sink with frosting on it. This is  _ not _ how he’d thought this day would end. 

He  _ especially _ wasn’t expecting the phone call from Kirstie, asking if he would pretty please come pick her and Mitch up from the club, because apparently Matt had ditched them. Now, Scott didn’t exactly believe that, considering that his drunk passengers had pleaded to stop at McDonald’s before Kirstie was dropped off at her apartment, and he was aware that Matt had an early morning meeting the next day  _ with Scott _ . So Matt was more likely the responsible party who had left early into the night after Mitch’s deathday celebration, not the “mean ditchy bully” he had been painted as. 

Scott hadn’t gone with them to the club after the three of them had departed following the impromptu pizza party Mitch had decided to throw himself later that night. Because he hadn’t been previously aware of the date of Mitch’s deathday, Scott hadn’t been able to reschedule the rare, mass call with his parents and sisters. So he’d told them to have fun and chilled at home, enjoying the rare time he got to talk with his family, and attempt to fill them in on the weirdness of his life right now.

Of which he was abruptly reminded of as he stumped back up the stairs and set Mitch’s glass of water and some aspirin for him in the morning on the bedside table. 

He was debating whether or not he should slide in bed with Mitch, or if he should go sleep in one of the guest rooms. On the one hand, they’d literally kissed and Mitch had been clear about liking a grounding touch and Scott’s “warmness”. On the other hand, Mitch was drunk, and he didn’t exactly want to freak Mitch out if he woke up in the morning and thought  _ something _ had happened. 

Mitch whined and made grabby hands when Scott went back towards the door frame. 

“ _ Cold _ .”

Well that wouldn’t do. So, Scott did his best to wiggle in and get comfortable while also trying to avoid Mitch’s arms grabbing for him.

“Iff da furgvby mruves, i’s verrhy bfromy to me.”

Scott blinked up at the ceiling. “ _ What? _ ”

Mitch seemed to take offense at this, and he lifted his head enough to defend himself. “‘M just  _ saying _ .”

“Sure but—”

“Enuff’bout me. Izz your mom still nice?”

Scott coughed a little to disguise his abrupt laugh. 

“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“No, she  _ izz.  _ ‘T’s what I’m  _ saying _ .”

Scott glanced down at where Mitch was rolling his wrist to emphasize his point. 

“How do you know my mom anyways? They haven’t—”

“I’ve lived here too, ya know.” Scott received a poke to the middle of his chest. “I listened to your  _ callsss _ .”

“ _ Oh _ . Right, yeah.”

Mitch giggled and made a shushing sound. “But-ch’ya can’t tell Scott. ‘S  _ secret _ . Creepy ghost Mitchy.  _ Mitchy! _ ”

What was he even supposed to say to that?

“I  _ am _ Scott, baby. Oh my god, you’re  _ so  _ drunk—”

“ _ Baby! _ ” 

Scott rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. 

“Babybabybabybabybaby _ Mitchy _ baby—”

“Mitch, please.”

“Noooope.”

Scott sighed. “ _ Mitchy _ .”

“‘T’s me!”

“Go to sleep.”

“...Why?”

If Mitch wasn’t laying on his arm, he would be rubbing his temples right now. “Because l  _ really _ need you to, okay?”

“Fine. Iffff you keep talkin’.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Uhhhhhhhhhh penguins!”

“ _ Penguins? _ ”

“Yeah ‘cuz there was a guy at the wall and he said he worked at the zoo and they were gonna take some penguins back to Antardia—Antartia—Scott what’s it called—Artica—”

“Antarctica?”

“Yeah! They’re gonna go to  _ ‘tardica _ and take the penguins home!”

So much for Scott talking and Mitch  _ sleeping _ . He shifted the arm Mitch had pinned under him enough that he could play with Mitch’s hair a little. 

“Cool. Have you ever seen a penguin Mr. Ghost-Man?”

Mitch gasped. “ _ No! _ Scott I have to see a penguin I hafta hafta hafta see a penguin before they go home Scott gotta go to the  _ zoo _ —”

“Yeah sure, we can go to the zoo tomorrow. But you have to  _ sleep _ first. No drunk Mitch at the zoo.”

“‘M not drunk.”

Scott snorted. “Yes, you are.”

“Hm?”

“What?”

“Whad’ _ ju _ say?”

“Nothing.”

“Ok, good. ‘Cuz I’m tired and I wanna go to bed now, if that’s okay.”

Scott laughed into the pillow. “Yes, that’s okay. Go to bed.”

“Okay, g’night.”

“Good night, Mitchy.”

There was a nice silence for a few seconds before a giggle and—

“ _ Mitchy _ .”

Scott groaned.

**********************

Mitch was having a pretty fucking good day, if he said so himself. 

He’d worked up the courage to ask Scott out on a date. An  _ actual _ date. In  _ public _ .

And Scott had said yes, so they’d gone to a fancy place for dinner down near the river and sat across from each other in public and it was a  _ date _ .

Of course, there had been one little blip when they’d gone for a walk down the riverside, holding hands and (at least in Scott’s case) looking pretty damn  _ pretty _ . It was a poetic ending to their date with the sun setting and the city glowing around them—until some guy at one of the bars they walked past had slurred out  _ that _ word at them.

But Mitch wasn’t gonna have that. Not tonight, when he was feeling so  _ good  _ about them, so proud of himself for managing to do this at all—

And so he’d taken a step in front of a frothing Scott and told the guy to go fuck himself. And kept walking. 

Scott had stared at him so hard for the next block or two that he’d nearly walked into a lamppost. 

Mitch had finally stopped walking and just asked, “What?”

Scott had blinked at him some more and said, “That was hot.”

Which had set Mitch off laughing and broken the tense mood the bar asshole had set, so they could finish their walk in peace.

When they’d gotten home, Scott had demanded “more Mitchy time”, which of course was okay with Mitch, so Scott declared it was a movie kind of night (again) and somehow managed to wrap his giraffe limbs around Mitch like a koala on the couch. Which was also absolutely okay with Mitch.

The only issue with this at all was that Scott wasn’t exactly getting the movie night he had seemed excited for, considering they weren’t even watching whatever was on TV. Although, Scott started the conversation over whatever movie  _ he’d  _ picked, so he must be fine with not actually watching it.

“How much did you watch me when you were a ghost?”

Mitch lifted his head off Scott’s shoulder where their strange tangle of limbs had restricted his head to. “Where is  _ this _ coming from?”

Scott smirked. “Remember when you were super drunk like a week ago?”

Mitch hummed and tried to ignore the wave of dread. “No. I remember my  _ deathday _ but not so much the drunk part. I remember the hangover, if that counts. Why? What did I say?”

“That you used to listen to my calls. You wanted to know if my mom was still nice.”

Mitch groaned. “Ugh,  _ no _ . That was it, right? Please tell me that’s all I said.”

Scott laughed a little. “You were also concerned with whether or not you could be considered a zombie or not, and something about seeing penguins. But yeah, that was it about the ‘watching me’ stuff. Why? What else is there?”

He was  _ not  _ going to tickle him—

“Don’t you fucking dare, Scott—“

“Come on, tell me—“

“Get your  _ hands _ —“

The sing-song tone was not flattering. “Mitchy’s embarrassed! Mitchy’s embarrassed!”

“I was  _ respectful _ —“

“Then what are you so red about?”

Mitch glared at him. “ _ Nothing _ .”

Scott still clearly didn’t believe him—he knew better than to do that.

“Did you  _ watch  _ me doing something?”

“ _ No—“ _

“Mitchy, what did you  _ seeee _ —“

“The shower door is see-through, okay?” Mitch’s face was burning. “I didn’t know where you were—I just—it was an accident—I left right away—”

At least Scott didn’t seem mad, given that he was laughing so hard Mitch was worried he couldn’t breathe. 

“I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry! I  _ swear _ it was just the one time—”

“It’s fine!” Scott gasped out. “It’s fine, I’m not mad. God knows I stared at you in the hot tub too many times—” Scott froze. “Uh—”

Now it was Mitch’s turn to laugh. 

Scott winced. “I deserved that little screw up, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes you did.” Mitch dropped his head back on Scott’s shoulder and wiggled to get comfortable again. Scott tried to assist by shuffling them down so Scott’s head was propped on a pillow and Mitch was laying across him.

“Well I am sorry, if that makes it any better.”

Mitch closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s okay. If it was anyone else, I would probably be freaking out right now, but it’s you.”

“...My ego is doing _pretty_ good right now.”

Mitch opened his eyes so he could roll them. Scott tried to squeeze the life right back out of him, to which Mitch groaned and batted at Scott until he loosened his grip. 

“You’re mean.”

“Nooooo, you’re just so cute and small, I have to squeeze you. My brain says I have to. Not my fault.”

“How’s it not your fault? _Your_ _brain_ —”

“—knows I gotta squeeze ya. To prove that I like you and think you’re awesome and adorable and you make me super happy.”

“...I do?” It’s not a hard concept, considering Mitch definitely feels the same way about  _ Scott _ , but no one’s ever said anything so honestly like that to him.

Scott looked genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Mitch shrugged. “I mean, I know I haven’t let you fuck me or anything yet—”

“ _ No _ .” No what? “First of all, don’t ever  _ let _ me do anything _ to you _ . If you don’t want something, then I don’t want it either. I don’t know that much about how any other relationships you’ve had went, but that’s  _ not _ how this one is going to work.”

Oh.

“Second of all,” Scott looked pissed, but not at Mitch, just mad, “We don’t ever have to do  _ anything _ if you don’t want to. I keep forgetting that you grew up in such a different world. But that’s not how relationships should work, Mitchy. And even if it was, it’s our relationship; we get to make the rules. I’m never going to be mad at you for saying no.”

Mitch hesitated. “I—you know I’ve courted girls?”

Scott nodded. “I mean, you didn’t really have another choice. And I still think it’s funny that you  _ courted  _ them.”

“Hm, shut up.” Mitch swatted at Scott’s arm, pleased when it just tightened around him again, though not so painfully tight this time. “They were mostly just my sister’s friends who took a liking to me, nothing I ever tried to take seriously—I couldn’t make myself do that—”

“And you shouldn’t have had to.”

“It was what it was. But um, it was mostly just me awkwardly trying to get out of ever being alone with them until they got fed up with me refusing to have sex with them and left me.”

“I’m not leaving.” Scott chuckled a little bit. Mitch was relieved that Scott thought the concept of leaving was funny. “If you really,  _ honestly _ think that I need sex so much that it makes me even think twice about being with you, you are  _ sadly _ mistaken. Besides, if I’m ever  _ that _ horny, my right hand—”

“ _ Scott! _ ” Mitch laughed and buried his face back into Scott’s neck. 

“Just saying. Closeted Scott learned a whole lot about what hands—”

“ _ Okay _ , okay! I get your point!”

“It’s yours if you ever want it. And if you don’t, that’s fine too. Still yours.”

“What—” Mitch groaned. “Seriously? That was bad. A  _ bad _ joke. I’m not kidding,” he ignored Scott’s laughing and just talked louder over him. “It really sucked.” 

Oh no.

“I mean, if—”

Mitch swatted Scott’s arm and untangled their limbs so he could pretend to walk away. “Nope, I’m leaving.”

“Nooooo—”

Grabby arms didn’t let him get farther than the edge of the coffee table before his shirt was caught and Mitch was forced to stop and look back at the grinning goliath sprawled out on the couch, hair mussed up and eyes all crinkled and brutally, honestly happy.

If Mitch could have a lock screen on his brain so he could see something everyday, or wake up to the same image, or just plain always have it with him, this would be it. He was very tempted to grab his phone out and take the picture anyway, but Scott reeled him in and wrapped him up in a bear hug before he could reach for his phone. 

So instead, he would keep that image tucked away in his memories, like those core memories in  _ Inside Out _ . (They’d cried through that whole movie.) Right there in the center where he could always think about it. Preferably forever.


	13. So Like... PG-13?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys know... that I love each and every one of you and hearing from you guys is always the best part of my day? 🤯👌❤️

“Hey Scott?”

“Yeah?” Scott glanced up from his book. Mitch had been on a binge of classics that he’d missed, so Scott was trying to read a few of the ones Mitch had really liked before the books disappeared back to the bookstore Mitch spent like, all day at. (He’d figured out that Mitch had some sort of deal with the owner to borrow some of the books so he wouldn’t have to go all the way across the city to the library or something.) He could understand why Mitch liked  _ Frankenstein _ , but  _ The Phantom of the Opera _ was a bit more up his own personal alley. High school had solidified his... opinion on  _ Animal Farm _ , but watching Mitch’s slowly furrowing face as he read it almost encouraged Scott to pick it up again.

Mitch was leaning on the doorframe, and he pointed at the hallway behind him with his thumb. “I’m gonna go take a shower…”

“Okay.” Scott turned back to the book. It took him a full paragraph to realize Mitch was still standing in the doorway. “Uh,” he gave a thumbs up. “Have fun?”

Mitch shuffled his feet. “I’m going to go take a shower, and I was  _ wondering _ , uh, if  _ you _ would be interested in, um—”

“ _Oh!_ ” Scott dropped the book on the couch. “Yeah! You know, I actually worked out like six times today or something, so—what are the odds—I could use a shower too—”  
Mitch rolled his eyes. “You’re trying too hard.”

“Go big or go home, baby.” Scott grabbed Mitch’s hand and dragged him down the hallway towards the bedrooms. 

Standing in Scott’s bathroom, (the  _ superior  _ bathroom with the legendary glass door), Mitch seemed to be getting nervous. Which was absolutely not on the list of Good Emotions for his sweet Mitchy. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Scott reached out and ran his hands down the length of Mitch’s arms, pulling his hands up so he could press kisses to the backs of his fingers. 

Mitch huffed. “I  _ know _ . And I  _ want _ to do this, so don’t you start with the whole ‘we can do it some other time’. I trust you and I want to be able to do stuff like this with you, so I’m fucking,” Mitch pulled his hands back and yanked his shirt off over his head, “doing this right now. And you are too. C’mon.” Mitch elbowed Scott. “Get moving.”

Whatever words Scott had meant to say got cut off in a weird choking sound when Mitch started tugging his own pants down. 

Mitch paused to glare at Scott. “What?”

“Nothing.” 

Mitch kicked his pants the rest of the way off and tugged on the bottom of Scott’s shirt. “Then come  _ on _ .”

He helped Mitch pull the shirt over his head and stared at Mitch still in boxers, as he reached in the shower to turn the water on. Scott hurried to undo his pants when Mitch glared over his shoulder and whined out, “Hurry  _ up _ .”

Scott’s boxers hit the floor, and the next time Mitch turned around, he broke out in giggles. Scott narrowed his eyes. “Now I  _ know _ you aren’t laughing at—”

“No, no no no!” Mitch buried his face in his hands. “This is so stupid. Fine. It’s fine. Whatever.” He yanked his own boxers off like a bandaid, eyes squeezed shut, and immediately turned to step into the shower, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Scott’s outstretched hand to hold the door open so he could walk in behind Mitch paused in mid air. He fought a laugh and knocked on the door. “Uh, can I come in too?”

Scott watched him glance back at the door and realize that he’d just shut it on Scott, then shrug it off and turn back towards the steaming stream of water. “I don’t know.  _ Can  _ you?” he taunted towards the wall.

Scott narrowed his eyes and pulled the door open himself. “Whoever taught you that is banned.”

“Banned from what?” Mitch elbowed Scott out of the way so he could keep hogging all the hot water. 

“Your  _ mom _ .” Scott wiggled his way back under the water right next to Mitch, grabbed a handful of shampoo and started working his fingers through Mitch’s hair. Mitch leaned back against Scott. Oh, he was  _ warm _ . “You okay with all this?”

Mitch had his eyes closed and hummed back. “Mhm.”

Okay, but… “So like... you like it? Don’t like it? Any thoughts so far?”

Mitch’s eyes opened slowly. “Like it.”

His fingers slowed to a gentle, steady pace. “Ok. That’s nice.”

There was a long moment of silence accompanied only by the water splashing against them, the cold tile under their feet.

“Scott, we need to be talking. This is so weird.  _ Some _ sort of conversation needs to happen.”

“Uh.” He prepared himself to avoid a pinch. “Favorite food?” As if he doesn’t already know it’s pizza.

Mitch turned slowly to raise a single eyebrow at Scott. No pinches were aimed at him though, just a soft laugh. “Pizza. Color?”

A few months ago, he might have said, like, blue or something. But now… “Okay, so picture a brown color, but it’s really rich. Like, in the sun, it gets all warm and glowy, and it turns into this amber hue. And it has so much character in it, you can stare at it all day and never get bored.”

Mitch blinked. “Brown?”

He didn’t get it, did he? “Yeah, and it’s got all these little golden flecks in it, and you can see so much life in the color that you wouldn’t need a caption to go along with it. The color could just be on its own and it could tell a whole story.”

Mitch laughed a little nervously, eyes flicking between Scott’s. “Am I missing something?”

Scott grinned. “Yeah.”

He tugged Mitch closer so he could press a kiss to his forehead, but only realized his mistake when Mitch started to grumble out, “You missed—”

“ _ Blarghhh— _ ” Mitch was pushed out of the way so Scott could stick his tongue under the water stream. He could see the brief confusion in his peripheral, but then he saw Mitch figure it out when he doubled over laughing, Scott still trying to rinse out his mouth. 

“Did you— _ eat the shampoo? _ ”

Scott glared over his shoulder, and yep. Mitch’s hair still had the bubbles in it, which he  _ would  _ have paid more attention to, had he not been more focused on staring at his favorite color. “Ah wahn’t  _ trhying toh _ . Blegh.”

Mitch nudged Scott out of the way so he could rinse his head off. No more accidental taste-tests, good idea. 

Tongue thoroughly purged of the distinct flavor of soap, Scott was able to laugh at his mistake a little better. “So much for being chill and romantic.”

Mitch smirked and reached for the shampoo. “Nah, you’re doing great. Definitely a subtle attempt at seduction.”

“Don’t you try it now,” Scott warily eyed Mitch’s hands reaching for his hair.

Mitch gave him his signature “ _ are you serious”  _ look. “My mouth isn’t getting anywhere near your head, you absolute giant.”

Scott hooked his arms around Mitch’s waist and tugged him closer. “I mean, it could, if you wanted it to.” Not the  _ best _ pick up line, but it would do.

“Hm, right.  _ After _ the shampoo is gone, I will consider it.”

Well as great as the brief head massage was, all good things must come to an end, right? Hair was rinsed quickly so he could proceed on the part where he backed Mitch against the wall and ignored the giggles and Mitch’s short gasp at the cold tile behind his back in order to close the gap between their lips. 

Now this kiss was nothing like that first one in the kitchen days ago, nor the others they’d shared since. This one was all tongue and nipping at each other and hands running all over and oh boy, Scott might need this to switch to a cold shower soon. The harder Mitch’s fingernails dug into his shoulder blades or dragged down his sides, the less Scott was able to focus on what his mouth was doing and the more he needed to concentrate on the location of his hips in relation to Mitch’s. 

He was so focused on trying to stay calm that he didn’t realize when he had broken the kiss by biting down on Mitch’s lip. He  _ did _ notice, however, when Mitch sucked in a shuddery gasp and arched up into Scott. One of the hands on his back moved up to his hair and pulled him in even closer, and then Scott’s hips bucked forward out of his control. Mitch seemed fine with that though, when a leg was abruptly thrown around Scott’s knee, pulling him in so his weight was leaning on Mitch and he couldn’t pull back. Fuck,  _ fuck _ —they needed to—

“ _ Mitch _ —”

There was no response, just a tug to get his mouth back near Mitch’s, but—

“Mitch.  _ Mitch _ —we gotta—”

“Hm?”

He managed to wiggle his head back far enough to look down, and  _ fuck _ Mitch’s pupils were blown and he was breathing hard and  _ fuck fuck _ his lips were bright pink and swollen and  _ fucking fuck fuck _ Scott needed to back up  _ asap _ . 

“We gotta slow down—if— _ Mitch _ —”

_ There was a hand grabbing his ass, _ pulling him closer again. 

“ _ Mitch! _ ” he pleaded.

There was a whine. Scott forced his fingers to let go of Mitch and settle on his upper chest, creating a little gap in between them so they could get some air again. 

“We’ve really gotta slow down.”

Mitch pouted.  _ Damn _ the big sad eyes. 

“Do we  _ have _ to?”

Scott wiped some of the water off of Mitch’s face. “Well… it’s up to you, I guess. But I don’t want you to be upset tomorrow or regret this—”

Mitch shook his head, finally forcing Scott to look away from his eyes. “I literally could never regret you.”

How did he say like,  _ me too _ , or  _ same _ ? ‘Cause standing there and opening and closing his mouth like fish was really  _ not _ right. 

He remembered a few seconds into their sudden impromptu hug  _ why _ he was trying to slow this down. To be fair, Mitch clearly had the same problem that he did, but still. Scott was supposed to be the one making sure this was okay and not too fast,  _ not _ trying to speed it up. 

Mitch’s mouth was right next to his ear. “Scott. Do you really think I expected a perfectly PG shower?”

That—damn, that was actually a good point.

“So like… PG-13 is okay with you?”

Mitch poked him in the side. “I swear, sometimes…”

Wait  _ noooo _ —

“Come  _ back. _ ”

Mitch wiggled his eyebrows from the other side of the shower. “You expect us to actually be able to slow down when you still have me pinned against the wall?”

“I hate it when you’re right.” 

“I’m always right.”

Scott grumbled. “ _ I’m always right _ .” He ducked from the incoming slap. 

“You’re literally  _ so _ annoying.” When had Mitch gotten soap? Nevermind, he didn’t care when there were hands running over his chest. 

“Stop wiggling.”

Scott increased the abundance of wiggles. Even if he wasn’t as ticklish as Mitch, his soft touch and all the bubbles were definitely enough to have him squirming. Now  _ this  _ exasperated glare from Mitch was ruined partially by the soft contentment in his eyes. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re really fucking gorgeous, ‘cause like... you are.” 

_Nice_ _job. Really smooth there, Scott._ See this is why we _think_ before we speak. So we have _coherent sentences_. 

Mitch blinked at him. “Um, no…?”

Oh, right. Shit. He cringed. “Sorry, that was kinda insensitive, I forgot about—you know, um—”

“The fact that I literally could never have done anything like this in my last life? And that this is my first serious relationship? And the gender roles that I grew up with restricted the kind of verbal affection I’ve actually experienced?”

“...Yeah.” Scott took a breath. He knew Mitch was teasing, but he really didn’t mean to bring up something that heavy right now. Even if Mitch seemed fine, it must still hurt to be reminded. It hurt  _ Scott _ to think about it, and he hadn’t  _ lived _ it. “Okay, new topic.” Shit, what else was there to talk about? How does he deflect towards something more lighthearted? "Um, how do you get on the roof?”

“... _ what? _ ”

“You mentioned sometime that you used to sit on the roof when you were a ghost and watch the city. How’d you get up there?”

Mitch laughed. “Uh, go through the attic?

Wait, what? “I have an _ attic? _ ”

“I guess I know what we’re doing tonight, then.”

Mitch had wanted a conversation during the shower, but this was just an increasingly catastrophic  _ mess _ . Whatever. Scott would be a mess for Mitch whenever he could if it made Mitch smile like this.


	14. A Cold Skinny Dip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Be careful tonight. Stay safe whether it be (socially distant) trick or treating, or sitting alone in a graveyard against a cold tombstone... Is that just the wind rustling through the leaves, or is there someone there? Back in the last row, behind another stone, glowing eyes just peering over the top—did you see that? The hair on the back of your neck is standing on end. Something just moved along the edge of the trees, just on the edge of your sight, but when you turn, there's nothing there. Who—What was that? What are they watching for? What will happen when they're done waiting? Why did you come alone? Will you be able to leave alone? Or even at all? Run while you still can...
> 
> Anyways, here! Have another chapter of this not-so-spooky ghost story! 👻

Scott trudged in the door of their bedroom and flopped down heavily, face first on the bed next to Mitch. Mitch flipped a page and transferred a hand to card through Scott’s hair, while Wyatt jumped up on the bed and sat down next to the grumpy blob. 

“Long day?”

The blob pushed himself up and crawled over between Mitch’s legs, curling up between them and dropping his head and shoulders on Mitch’s torso like he was a pillow. 

“Meetings.”

Ah. That would explain it. Long days at the bookstore just meant Ben (the owner and a _brutally_ smart literature enthusiast) had to come and yell at whatever snot rocket was drooling all over the children’s section. Of course, he didn’t actually yell at toddlers, but he was much better at reprimanding entitled mothers than Mitch was. So basically his point is that working at the bookstore was a lot easier than being a producer. (Sorry Scotty.)

“Was Harley being a dumbass again?”

“Mhm,” Scott groaned into his sternum. “And he got Gemma in on it too, somehow.”

“I’m sorry, Scotty.”

Scott shrugged a little. “Whatcha reading?”

“ _ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” _

“Can you read it out loud?”

“Sure.” Mitch let his free arm drape around Scott’s shoulders. “From the beginning?”

“Nah, wherever you are. I just wanna hear your voice for a while.”

“Okay.” He paused a second to let Wyatt resituate himself closer to them. “‘There was crisp, dry snow under his feet and more snow lying on the branches of trees. Overhead there was a pale blue sky, the sort of sky one sees on a fine winter day…’”

It took him to the end of the chapter and probably a third into the next one to notice that Scott had fallen asleep. He smiled and kept reading.

**********************

Later that night, sitting in the kitchen with two bowls in front of them, filled only with the melted remains of the last of their ice cream, Mitch still couldn’t shake that calm, heady feeling that had settled earlier. 

“Dare.”

Although Scott may very well find a way. 

“Hmm…” Mitch glanced around, and his eye caught on the patio out the back doors. It’s not like he’s trying to hide how much he’s obsessed with Scott anymore…

“I dare you to go skinny dip in the hot tub.”

The betrayed look in Scott’s face made his evil laughter so much more satisfying.   
“In the _cold_ hot tub?”

“Yep. Don’t you  _ dare _ warm it up first.” Okay, as much as he wants to see some skin from Scott, he also has way too much interest in being an absolute pest. He almost misses spending all day pranking Scott, before his undeath. 

But not really. He won’t even tempt the universe with the suggestion of going back. Now that he’s got a body again, he has absolutely no interest in that.  _ Especially _ before he gets a ride on  _ that dick Jesus _ —

Scott has apparently no shame, walking straight out the back door to the patio with absolutely no clothes on. And Mitch should really follow him and quit staring at his ass. And maybe grab some towels. 

He made a mad dash for the bathroom to grab a towel, and made it outside to see Scott standing next to the uncovered hot tub, arms crossed and glaring at the water like it had hurt someone he loved. 

Scott turned and scowled at Mitch. “I don’t want to.”

Mitch shrugged. “You aren’t getting another dare.”

Scott stuck his tongue out and Mitch watched in slow motion as he hopped over the side of the tub and dunked himself all in one fluid motion. 

Mitch took a nice long laugh. When Scott stayed submerged, Mitch sauntered over to the tub to poke at him—both with jokes and his finger. A hand shot out of the water and grabbed his outstretched wrist, and he had just enough time to shriek, “ _ NO _ —”, before Scott managed to yank him over the side and down into the  _ freezing fucking water oh my god oh my god _ —

Mitch flailed his arms and kicked out at Scott, trying to dunk him all the way under after his initial fall. 

“No,  _ no _ — _ motherfucker lemme go _ —holy shit  _ Scott _ —”

Mitch managed to crawl back over the side of the tub between Scott’s bouts of laughter, and stood, glaring and shivering and dripping wet on the patio. He could feel his clothes sticking to him and it was  _ so fucking cold I’m gonna make sure you regret this _ —

Scott rose up out of the water and Mitch didn’t even stop to fully take in that sight, just kept trying to set Scott on fire with his eyes. 

“I couldn’t  _ not _ do that.”

Mitch narrowed his eyes even more and grabbed the towel he’d brought for Scott and started to dry off his own hair. Scott lost his towel privileges after that little stunt. 

“Aww, not my towel, Mitchy.”

Mitch turned his back and kept drying his hair. 

“Noooo, don’t be mad. It was  _ funny _ .”

Mitch tugged his shirt off and wiped down his arms and chest. 

“Mitchyyy…”

Mitch clenched his jaw and pulled his sweatpants off to dry off his legs, and stalked in the house to go look for a dry pair of underwear, dutifully ignoring Scott’s “ _ Miiiiitch _ ”s. 

He made it all the way to his old room where his clothes still lived before a long set of arms wrapped around him and tugged him back against a still  _ very wet  _ man. 

He glared at the far wall and tried to continue ignoring Scott, but all the kisses being pressed all over his head, basically anywhere Scott could reach, were making it very hard to keep a straight face. 

Ha, straight. Never again. 

A big, wet smooch was planted right on his cheek, just barely on the edge of his mouth, and his treasonous smile emerged against his best attempts to subdue it. 

“You  _ bastard _ ,” he hissed out. 

Scott whooped and cheered and reached around Mitch to grab one of his pairs of sweatpants out of his drawer. 

Mitch sighed, but let Scott steal his pants while he swapped out his underwear for a dry pair. “That’s not gonna fit.”

Scott hummed. “You always buy oversized clothes. It’ll be fine.”

Mitch leaned back on the dresser and crossed his arms to watch Scott try to pull it over his thighs. Scott made a valiant attempt, but the pants refused to work their way all the way up around his hips. Scott sighed and repurposed the pants as a makeshift towel. “I suppose it’s gonna be my job to go collect all the clothes and throw them in the laundry?”

Mitch nodded. “Should I meet you in the living room?”

“How did you know I was gonna—”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “We watch movies like, every other night. I would be more surprised if you  _ didn’t  _ want to. Which movie is it tonight?”

Scott grinned at him for a second, all gooey in the eyes. “ _ Ghostbusters _ . I can’t believe it took me till now to remember it, but you  _ have  _ to see it, spook-meister.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Meet you downstairs.”

Wyatt appeared from around the corner to follow Mitch down to the couch. Mitch wiggled them into a comfortable cuddle, but their basking only lasted a few minutes before a still very naked, but thankfully much drier, Scott appeared, carefully relocated the handful of books Mitch still had scattered across the couch to the coffee table, and flopped down on top of him. No complaints here.

Wyatt seemed less pleased with the appearance of Gangly-Limbs the Tall disrupting his little seat and watched Mitch scornfully from his new seat on an armchair. 

True to tradition, Mitch only really absorbed the first—maybe, half an hour?—of the movie, until the little soft kisses Scott was pressing all over his jaw and slowly tracing down his neck took up more of his attention. A tongue traced down his throat, and a shiver raced down his spine. Teeth traced gently across his collarbone, and he tensed slightly at the implications. Right where his neck met his shoulder, a soft kiss slowly started working towards the beginnings of a hickey. 

Fuck, okay. Mitch hooked one of his legs over Scott’s ankle, further intertwining them together. With their chests pressed together, Mitch could tell both of their breathing was getting heavier. And, at least for him, although he didn’t doubt Scott was experiencing the same thing, blood was starting to work its way southwards. 

Last time in the shower, Mitch had just barely pulled away when his self-control decided that maybe he needed a little time yet. But right now, that little sliver of discomfort that he’d been trying to throw into a metaphorical ditch… wasn’t there? If he was even slightly interested in getting out from under Scott right now, he might jump for joy and then wiggle back under him again. But let’s just skip the middle part, shall we? 

Somewhere along the way, Scott’s mouth found its way back up to Mitch’s, and the little wiggle he had going against the tickle of Scott’s lips and tongue had turned into a slow grind. Scott’s arms wormed under Mitch, tugging him up closer, and Mitch’s arms looped around Scott’s shoulders and kept him close, too. 

The grind became more purposeful when Scott dragged his lips up Mitch’s cheekbone and whispered, “Truth or Dare?”

Mitch let out a breathy laugh and matched Scott’s hip rolls. “Truth?”

“Is this okay?” Scott’s head pulled back just enough that Mitch could open his eyes and see Scott’s half-concerned, half-hot-as- _ fuck _ stare. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, and dragged Scott back down. 

One of Scott’s hands made their way to his waist and traced along the top of his boxers. And as nice as this was, it would be so much better without this fabric in the way, catching and making their rhythm drag—so Mitch lifted his hips a little and then the boxers were yanked on and gone, who cares where, and Scott was still nibbling on his bottom lip and  _ oh fuck they were really doing this _ .

The hand Scott had left on Mitch’s hip found its way around to grab his ass, and his legs, completely on their own, fell apart a little wider. And then Scott was rolling his hips a little harder and  _ shit _ that was so much better without the boxers between them because now they were both rutting up against each other and fuck, Mitch couldn’t get over how warm it was.

Yes, they were both fairly sweaty and still damp, and the leathery couch was sticking to Mitch’s skin and creaking along with each press of Scott’s hips, but Mitch also just plain felt like he was burning out of his skin. 

This was going to be over way,  _ way _ too soon and Mitch was torn between wishing he could stay here forever and desperately wanting  _ more more more Scott _ —

There was some sort of whining sound coming from his throat and Scott had his forehead pressed into Mitch’s and they were really just panting into each other’s mouths now, and oh  _ fuck _ there was a hand sliding between them and Mitch clawed at Scott’s back when the hand closed around his dick. 

_ How  _ could he feel both so trapped inside his own skin, pressing up desperately and about to burst at the seams, and yet so loopy and floaty, like he wasn’t quite all the way there?

He was torn between trying to match the quick, little jerks from Scott’s hand or matching the long, steady rolls from his hips, and was trapped leaning into simultaneously both and neither, twitching with one for a second before groaning and trying to match the other—

Scott’s breath was hot against Mitch’s cheek and the leather was sticky under his shoulders and the hand around his dick was so so warm and the arm tugging him up, arching off the couch was just radiating heat and Mitch was burning burning burning he was on fire every nerve was its own candle and he was going to ignite, and—

Scott barely whispered out, “ _ Mitchy _ ”, and the sound that tore out of his mouth as the flames overtook him and he spasmed and came all over Scott’s hand sounded like a sob. 

Scott was saying something, whispering something into Mitch’s hairline and peppering his forehead with more sweet little kisses just like the ones that had started this all. Mitch wasn’t listening as he trembled, and why would he? Nothing Scott could be saying right now could compare to what he wasn’t saying right now, with his little pecks, slowing hips, and gentle, steady circles that his thumb was caressing into Mitch’s lower back while Mitch gasped for air and rode the wave of fire carrying him down back to Scott. 

When his heart had slowed enough that it was no longer trying to escape his chest, Mitch cracked his eyes open to see Scott still just inches from his own face, gazing down at him with this reverent look of awe that kind of made Mitch want to cry. 

“ _ God _ , Mitch…” he whispered. “ _ Fuck  _ you’re— _ Mitch _ …”

Mitch tilted his head up to close that little gap between their mouths. He didn’t want a long kiss here, not while Scott was still trying not to press down on him. 

Mitch dropped his face back down so he could look at Scott again and dragged his hand down Scott’s bare side. “Your turn?”

Scott’s eyes flicked between his before he whispered back, “Sure.”

Mitch could see the brief internal struggle between Scott wanting to follow Mitch into the flames and also not wanting to push him, or drag this out more, but bitch please. This wasn’t exactly a  _ chore _ , Scott.

As he’d expected, it didn’t take long after Mitch wrapped his own hand around Scott’s dick. Scott’s fingers were tightening as he clung to Mitch, left hand still clutching Mitch’s lower back and right hand having slid up to splay across his heart. Scott’s head thunked down on Mitch’s collar with a shiver, and Mitch had just enough time to press a kiss into Scott’s hair before he whimpered out another “ _ Mitch— _ ” and succumbed to his own fire. 

Laying there afterwards, sticky and sweaty and rightfully gross with Wyatt snoring across the room and the TV still playing  _ Ghostbusters _ , Mitch was surprised at how calm he felt. Scott was still catching his breath against Mitch’s skin, and Mitch could feel his smile. 

“We’re gonna have to rewind the movie,” Scott mumbled, and Mitch snickered.  _ Yes. Yes they were. _ “You good?”

Mitch grinned at the ceiling. “Literally never fucking better.”


	15. The L-Word Isn't That Scary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have good news, bad news, and a reminder. Bad news: This is your three chapter warning. (I'm sorry!) There are two more chapters after this one, (to be clear about numbers cuz math=hard). I feel like I'm not ready to part with this story yet, but the plot is trickling to the end, so I'll just compensate by doing this --> Good news: these last three chapters will be on the longer side for this book. And that brings us to our reminder: VOTE.

“Mitch doesn’t like chocolate ice cream,” Scott offered. 

Matt slowed to a stop and caught the ball in his hands before he could pass it back to Scott. “Uh, and that has to do with this because…”

Scott shrugged and headed for his water bottle, seeing as they must be taking an impromptu break. “Well, you’re saying the commercial writers didn’t think through the slogan, ‘Stop shoulding yourself’, and it’s an ice cream company, and lots of people like chocolate ice cream—seeing as it’s one of the most famous flavors—but _Mitch_ isn’t most people, and he doesn’t like chocolate ice cream.”

Matt blinked at him. “You literally found the most roundabout way to bring up Mitch again. Seriously, I don’t know how—whatever.” He typed out something on his phone—oh yeah, and Scott should double check that his phone doesn’t have any missed texts from Mitchy, too.

**********************

 **Matt:** Mitch Mentions: 23 and counting.

**Kirstie:** i meant it when i said u don’t have to keep doing that

**Kirstie** : mitch wants to know what it was for this time

**Matt:** He said that Mitch doesn’t like chocolate ice cream, and he said this after I mentioned how an ice cream commercial probably should have reconsidered using the slogan “Stop shoulding yourself”.

**Kirstie:** wait y can’t they say that

**Matt:** Say it out loud, LOL

**Kirstie:** lmfao nvm we got it

**********************

Kirstie set her phone down, and regarded Mitch with a faux-serious stare. “So, I need the tea.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “I know what that means now. You can stop rubbing it in.”

Kirstie grinned evilly. “Why would I _ever_ let it go? Considerate little Mitchy got me my tea—”

“—and I will never do it again if you keep rubbing my poor, kindhearted mistakes in my face.” Mitch huffed. “ _Why_ I put up with this, I don’t know.”

Kirstie grabbed the eyeshadow brush. “Because otherwise I won’t teach you how to do eyeliner someday, and you’ll forever be reliant on me.”

Mitch closed his eyes, but made sure to emphasize his distaste for her _bullying_ with a snarky mocking of her words. He received a sharp tap on the nose with the butt of the brush for his efforts. 

“So. _Tea_.” The brush started on his right eyelid. “Updates. Gimme.”

Mitch smiled. “Scotty—”

Kirstie groaned. “Not you _too_.”

“Hush. _Scott_ and I were watching _Ghostbusters_ the other day—”

“A classic.”

“Mhm. And we—you know...”

“Oh my god!” The shriek startled Mitch’s eyes open. Kirstie looked half shocked, half excited. “Are you serious?”

Yes of _course_ Kirstie knows all about his issues as a fresh, decloseted gay. Many sleepovers and musical binges had been interspersed with Mitch’s therapeutic over-sharing sessions, in which Kirstie had done her best to give advice on everything relationship-wise Mitch could think of. Honestly, Kirstie’s encouragement had been the only thing that had convinced a terrified Mitch to get his deathday cake and build up the courage to confront Scott in the first place. Turns out, being reminded of things you logically know, like the fact that he and Scott are literally glued to each others’ hips, by other people helps you process them better—a feat Wyatt wasn’t quite able to help him with during _their_ “discussions”.

Mitch nodded, grin matching the one on Kirstie’s face, lit brilliantly by her bright vanity lights. “Just hand stuff, nothing exciting—but _Kirstie_ —”

Kirstie pulled him into a quick, tight squeeze. 

“—literally, I cannot express how fucking _amazing_ it is to be able to do stuff like that. I never thought I would—you know—be _able_ to.”

Kirstie narrowed her eyes. “Scott’s being good about it, right? No funny business from him—or do I have to talk—”

Mitch laughed. “No, no! Scott’s literally perfect. Fucking… he’s so amazing. Like, he’s always checking in and making sure I’m okay with stuff and—”

“Wait wait wait.” Kirstie’s jaw dropped. “Are you implying you’ve done _more_ stuff?!”

Mitch shrugged bashfully. “Maybe.”

Kirstie cooed, “Aw, my little boy is all grown up and learning about _intimacy_ with his boyfriend for the first—”  
Mitch scrunched up his face on the word “intimacy”, but it relaxed sharply into a shocked expression at _that_. “Oh my god. He’s my _boyfriend._ ”

Kirstie trailed off her train of thought. “Are you serious? You two are _the_ most adorable couple I’ve ever seen.”

Mitch blinked down at the brush Kirstie was still holding. “I just… I never thought about us like that. Holy shit, I have a _boyfriend_. An actual—oh my god.”

Kirstie waved at him to close his eyes again, and she resumed applying the eyeshadow to his eyelid. “Well what did you think of him as before?”

“My Scotty.”

He could hear the internal snort Kirstie _100%_ just did. 

“That is disgustingly cute. Ew, okay, I need the dirty details. What did you get up to? What have you tried?” The brush disappeared momentarily before starting again on his left eyelid. 

“I told you about the _Ghostbusters_ thing,” Mitch giggled before continuing, doing his best not to get off-railed by thinking about it too much. “And then, a few days ago—I literally couldn’t tell you how it started—but he ended up teaching me blowjob tricks and it turned into a bit of a competition.”

The brush backed up and Mitch opened his eyes to see Kirstie’s own confused pair in front of his. “... _How?_ ”

“It was a race.” Mitch bit his lip to keep from laughing at the eye roll she beautifully demonstrated. 

“That is _such_ a Scott thing.” She smirked. “Do I even need to ask who won?”

Mitch lifted his chin. “ _I_ did.”

**********************

“I _did!_ ”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

“What,” Scott set a hand on his hip, the ball still balanced in the other. “You don’t think I can be responsible?”

Matt hummed and reached for the ball, which Scott dodged gracefully. “Nah, you can be responsible. I just also think that you wanted to get Mitch back for all his pranks, and therefore, would be physically incapable of restraining yourself from pretending to fall off the roof.”

Scott huffed and dodged another swipe for the ball, before aiming at the hoop and groaning when it bounced off the backboard, straight into Matt’s waiting hands. 

“I’m just saying,” Matt continued effortlessly as he dribbled to the other side of the court, “I can’t believe that you had a romantic picnic on your own roof with _that_ loaded of a backstory to it, and _didn’t_ try to lighten the mood with a fake Mufasa reenactment.”

Scott grumbled at both Matt’s statement and the neat swish of the net as Matt’s throw went cleanly in the basket, leaning down to pick it up as it rolled towards him. “Fine. I did pretend to fall. _But_ , it was exaggerated so I wouldn’t scare him. He doesn’t like stuff like that.”

Matt hummed and caught Scott’s pass. “I don’t think anyone does. And I don’t think I could see you doing it _that_ seriously to Mitch. You’re too smitten with him for that.”

“I’m not…” Scott trailed off, realizing the ridiculousness of his denial before it even fully emerged. 

“You are too.” Matt laughed. “Love-struck Scotty in the _house!_ ”

No, he’s—wait, yes. Love-struck. 

Holy shit, _love-struck_.

“Uh, Scott?”

Mitchy. _Love-struck for Mitchy_.

“Hello? I don’t think the wall is _that_ interesting.”

 _Love_.

**********************

 **Matt:** I broke him.

**Kirstie:** lol what did u do now

**Matt:** I made the mistake of calling him “love-struck” and now he’s grinning at the wall like an idiot.

**Kirstie:** oh boy good luck with that

**Matt:** Thanks. I might actually need it.

**********************

“What are you laughing at?” Mitch set down the little mirror. It couldn’t be his makeup— _could not_ be, because he looked _amazing_ , holy _shit_ —so it must be another funny Scott thing that Matt had texted Kirstie. “What did he do this time?”

Kirstie glanced up, hesitated, double checked her phone, and finally spat it out. “Matt called him love-struck and now he’s ‘grinning at the wall like an idiot’.”

He’s… oh. 

Oh. That’s—

Oh.

“Mitch, you’re scaring me.”

He giggled. “He…”

Kirstie’s face flickered into view. “Dude.”

He blinked. “Is this mascara waterproof?”

“Um, yeah. I think so. Why?” Kirstie still looked concerned about his current mental status. 

“I’m going to cry now.”

Kirstie chuckled a little, but froze when she saw his eyes welling up. “Oh, wait _wait wait that eyeliner isn’t waterproof_ —”

Her mad dash for tissues was enough to restart his giggles. 

**********************

 **Kirstie:** these two are going to be the death of us i swear

**Matt:** Indeed.

**Matt:** LOL

**********************

“We can try other stuff to help you get more comfortable with the concept,” Scott offered.

Mitch groaned at the ceiling, sprawled out on his back on their bed. “I _am_ comfortable with the concept. I’ve literally thought about it so much, you don’t even _know_.”

“Well actually, I might—”

“Hush,” Mitch chucked a pillow at Scott across the room. “It’s just, doing it for real is a lot, you know?”

Scott plopped down near Mitch’s feet and tossed the pillow back to him. “We don’t have to do any of that, if you don’t—”

Mitch chucked the pillow at him again, ignoring Scott’s snicker. “But I _do_ want to. It’s just… a _lot_.”

Scott put the pillow back at the head of the bed, further from Mitch’s reach this time, and settled back by his feet. He lifted one of Mitch’s feet on his lap and with an “I’m not gonna tickle you, I promise,” (which Mitch really wanted to believe but didn’t quite), and continued while his fingers worked little circles that felt _heavenly_.

“Do you want to try topping first?”

Mitch blinked at him. “Are you insinuating that I am _not_ a bottom?” He didn’t exactly need to try it to know that. 

Scott snorted. “Absolutely not. No, I’m just saying, I could bottom first so you can see how it works, and stuff.”

“I _know_ how—”

“Yes, I know,” Scott patted Mitch’s ankle. “You know what I mean. You could familiarize yourself with it, without actually having to be that vulnerable.”

That didn’t—that didn’t actually sound like a bad idea. Mitch lifted his head just enough to make eye contact with Scott, and oh boy, didn’t that make it all the more appealing.

“And you would be… okay with that?”

Scott looked _very_ serious. “Mitch, I will literally bottom for you whenever you want.”

Mitch swallowed hard. Now _that_ was a concept he hadn’t really thought about. He figured it might be the only thing he was going to think about for the next few days, though. 

“Are you sure? I know that’s not really your thing...”

Scott set his foot back on the bed and crawled up over him, propping himself up on his hands over Mitch’s face. “Mitch, _you_ are my thing. And it’s not like I _don’t_ like bottoming, it’s just not my absolute favorite to do _every_ time.”

Mitch reached up and grabbed Scott’s face to drag him closer to his own lips. “Really?” he whispered into the half an inch between their faces. 

Scott grinned. “Yeah.” And then he pressed forward and Mitch stopped paying quite so much attention to everything else that was going on. Somewhere along the line, the few remaining pieces of clothes that either of them had on were shed. 

Scott was straddling his lap now, knees on both sides of Mitch’s hips and holy _shit_ was that hot. One of Scott’s hands diverged from its path up and down Mitch’s skin. He assumed that the hand had gone to the bedside drawer and retrieved some goodies, but again: he wasn’t really paying attention to it. 

Oh wait, nevermind. Yes he _was_ paying attention, because now _both_ hands were gone and a dribble of something cold—a quick glance down confirmed it being lube and not like, ice cream, or something random—landed on his chest and Scott was leaning back and a hand disappeared behind Scott and _oh_ —

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mitch tapped on Scott’s shoulder and he paused, hand reappearing around his side with fingers curled up and shiny. He didn’t let Scott start with the concerned questions and beat him this time with his _own_ concerned question. “Are you, uh, ready for this?” Not the best way to phrase that, but he should definitely be checking in about it. 

Scott had the audacity to look embarrassed as he chuckled awkwardly. “Um, yeah. I’ve uh…” He scratched behind his ear with his non-lubed hand. “I’ve been meaning to bring it up for a couple days actually… so yeah. I’ve, you know, just in case we—um—I’m good.”

Now _that_ was—Mitch should—they should continue—right?

Scott’s laugh was much more relaxed now. “You good there?”

“You’re telling me we could have done this _days_ ago? And you waited until _now_ to bring it up?”

Scott opened his mouth to respond but hesitated, eyes flicking between Mitch’s. “Uh, yes?” 

Mitch snickered maturely at his own unintentional innuendo. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Scott groaned at him as his hand disappeared back behind him, and he leaned back down, mouth keeping Mitch’s mouth from continuing to express the humor in this situation that Scott seemed to not appreciate enough. Unfortunately for Scott, Mitch seemed to have gotten the giggles between the nerves and the excitement and the sheer, ridiculous nature of his entire life. 

Scott ignored him for as long as he could, until he pulled back and whined, “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Mitch clapped a hand over his mouth and dropped his head back on the pillow to try to catch his breath. “I’m _sorry!_ I’m sorry! I’m not trying to—I _swear_ .” Scott’s hand was still missing around back, which Mitch was _definitely_ not glancing at. “I’m just really excited, okay? This is _kind of_ a big deal for me.” 

How the hell did Scott look so focused on Mitch when he was literally _fingering himself_ right now? Mitch would _not_ be that collected if he was in Scott’s place. _Will_ not be that collected _when_ he’s in Scott’s place, someday soon. 

Scott grinned again, breathing a little heavier than would be considered normal. “Congratulations. Would you quit trying to ruin the mood?”

“I’m not _ruining the mood_ ,” Mitch matched Scott’s grin. If anyone’s ruining the mood, it’s _Scott_ . Because _one_ of them is being judgy and whiny, and it is _not_ Mitch. 

“Hm,” Scott pretended to consider his flawless argument. “See, but you keep laughing and talking about other stuff.”

Right. _He_ was talking about other stuff right now. “You want me to fix the mood? I’ll fix the mood.” 

Mitch rolled his head back and let out a guttural moan, dragging a hand down his chest and grabbing onto Scott’s thigh with his other. When he tipped his head back up, he was greeted with the gratifying image of Scott frozen, mouth open slightly, blinking at him, clearly stunned. 

“Okay.” Scott’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. 

Mitch tugged him down so he was leaning over him again and grabbed the lube with one hand. “Can I help?” 

Scott’s nod was very enthusiastic. Mitch realized with delight fairly quickly that Scott didn’t need much of Mitch’s help anymore; he’d clearly worked fast. Or— _oh fuck_ —what if he’d _already_ stretched—because he’d said he’d—earlier in case he finally brought it up— _fuck_ —

“Gimme that condom,” Mitch gasped out. 

Scott did not give it to him. Instead, he took it upon himself to unroll it on Mitch’s dick and proceed to— _shit shit quit it Scott or you’re not gonna have any time_ —ok, thank you.

Mitch glared at him and didn’t bother to voice his complaint. Well it wasn’t _really_ a complaint, was it? 

Scott was still looking down at where his now-stilled hand was wrapped loosely around Mitch, but then this nasty, mischievous grin overtook his face and he glanced up at Mitch. He narrowed his eyes for a second, because that could _not_ mean anything good, but then Scott was moving and pushing himself down and _oh my god you oh fuck bitch you little bitch_ , and Scott settled, fully seated. 

Mitch poked Scott square in the stomach and whined through his clenched jaw, “You couldn’t have given me any warning?”

Scott shook his head, looking a little less focused and put together than he had about 10 seconds ago. “What fun would that be for me? Then you wouldn’t make all those pretty noises.”

Mitch scowled at him—which really wasn’t that easy to do anymore, give him some credit here. It didn’t help that he knew Scott was absolutely right, either. He _would_ have kept quiet if he’d been prepared for Scott suddenly sitting on his dick. Or at least tried to, with the extra bit of attention he might have spared from the feeling of _warm hot smooth woah_ , etc.

He wasn’t exactly sure when they had come to this unspoken agreement that Scott was going to stay on top (literally, as in, sitting on top of Mitch’s hips right now), but this was definitely a great idea. He couldn’t quite express his gratitude for Scott giving him a second, especially after his surprise first push down. Although, it was probably just as much for Scott’s benefit as Mitch’s. Scott might not have been a ghost for 200 years, but as far as Mitch knew, it had been a while since he’d had any past relationships, too—let alone the last time Scott had bottomed. 

Which Mitch might ask him to do a whole bunch more if this brief preview was an accurate reflection of what the rest of this might be like. But he should maybe try bottoming too before coming to any serious conclusions. 

The way Scott’s neck was tight and his fingers were curled into the bedsheets on each side of Mitch’s ribs looked… promising for when it was Mitch’s turn. 

Scott started moving slowly, just a little, gentle rocking motion that had Mitch biting his lip and trying not to look down at where they were connected. Fuck, this was going to be a test of will for him. Because there was absolutely _no way_ he was going to make it till _after_ Scott came. Not if he kept making that little grunting sound now that he was making longer, deeper rolls down.

Mitch added to Scott’s rhythm with the little bit of leverage that he had to thrust up. Not that Scott needed any help or anything, he looked like he was having a perfectly fine time staring down at Mitch with those heavy-lidded eyes and smug, loose grin that let him suck in air and let out those little sighs and grunts that made Mitch want to buck up and tug him down so he could swallow up those little sounds with his own mouth. 

A few minutes in, a particularly good grind down had Scott sucking in this ragged gasp and tossing his head back, sending a thrill through Mitch and the accompanying shiver had him suddenly all too aware of how warm and sweaty it was starting to get—his _favorite_.

He must’ve—he must have made some kind of whine or something, because then Scott’s eyes were sliding open and he was curling down over Mitch, hands on both sides of his head, and fucking himself on Mitch faster and _oh_ —that was _good_ , fuck—

Mitch threw his arms around Scott’s back, just clinging onto his shoulders for dear life, toes curling into the sheets underneath him at the increasingly frantic grind. Scott leaned down a little farther, vaguely connected their lips for a distracted breath that was too much panting hot air at each other and not enough Scott, in Mitch’s opinion, and then Scott—

“I love you,” Scott gasped out. 

What.

He tried to kiss Mitch again, but wait _wait wait_ —

“ _Scott_.”

Scott brushed his lips over Mitch’s cheek and _no no no don’t get distracted_ he said—

“Scott!”

Scott tilted his head back just enough to make eye contact and slowed his pace to a less desperate rhythm—as if that was really going to do anything to help Mitch get a grip now between the sweet, burning, _deliciously_ sweaty feeling he had crawling over his skin and—

“What?”

“Why—why would you say that _now?_ ” Some part of his trainwreck of a brain right now must be showing on his face, according to the hesitant look on Scott’s face, before he set his expression back to a more stubborn one. 

“Because I love you and I wanted—wanted to tell you.” Scott sped up a little again and _fuck_ wait—

“ _Bitch_ ,” Mitch gasped. “How the hell am I supposed—supposed to tell Kirstie about you saying it for the first time?”

Scott’s jaw dropped for a second and a surprised laugh bubbled out between pants, but he shuddered and shook his head, nose brushing against Mitch’s, “I don’t— _care_ , Mitch just—oh— _love_ you.”

Mitch forced his eyes to tear away from Scott’s face and look down to take in the full sight of them and _oh_ , Scott was— _how_ did fingers as long and gorgeous as Scott’s look so small wrapped around his cock and—Mitch understood suddenly at the low moan Scott let out paired with that sight, head dropped forward and eyes barely still locked on Mitch, why Scott had needed to say it _right now_ , so—

“Fuck, I love you too, Scotty.”

Scott moaned and then his head dropped into Mitch’s neck and he shivered and Mitch tightened his grip on Scott’s back and he could feel Scott’s come dripping onto his stomach and Scott’s panting hot against his skin and _fuck_ he was so _close_ too—

And Scott slowed just enough and Mitch couldn’t tell if the whine was out loud, or the wild “ _no, please!_ ” was the part that made it out, but Scott pushed up just enough to lick his way across Mitch’s bottom lip and murmured out, “Mitchy _please_ —I wanna feel you in me—”

He’s wearing a condom, Scott _knows_ that, but just the thought of—of someday being able to do this without one— _swapping roles and fucking without one_ —had Mitch dragging in a painful gasp and bucking up into Scott, the flames washing over him— _oh oh yes Scott_ —he groaned maybe part of that out loud, and sucked in air against the trembling and weight and heat of Scott collapsed on top of him.

As soon as he got his breath back, when he could trust his voice to actually produce sound and not just crackle and give out, he managed to croak out into Scott’s hair, “I definitely wanna try bottoming next time. You—fuck, it looked good.”

“Be my guest,” Scott giggled and pressed a kiss to Mitch’s collarbone where his head was still resting. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too.”


	16. Burning in Hellfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how 'bout that stress, everybody? I hope this can be a few minutes of calm for anyone who needs it. Take care of yourselves. ❤️

The next morning, Mitch opened his eyes before he fully woke up. In his half-conscious, bleary state, he couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong with the picture in front of him. It took him a few blinks to realize that the disappointment rising in his chest was because the normal mess of blond hair was not on the pillow next to him, and was instead replaced by a gray blob. 

_ Huh _ . That was odd. Typically, Mitch was the first to wake up. His first few weeks of life, coffee, and a desperate aversion to sleep had trained him, in a sense, to wake up early now. It wasn’t that he  _ liked _ waking up early, it just kinda happened. Usually, it didn’t bother him that much, whether he was awoken by the stray nightmare or just habit, because he could take a moment to remind himself that it was just a dream and look down at Scott sleeping peacefully next to him. It had gotten to the point where waking up and taking a few minutes to just admire the sight of his relaxed, soft face, and the way his hair just fell across the pillow or Mitch’s shoulder and seemed to shimmer in the weak rays of the early sunrise—it had gotten to the point where it was easily one of Mitch’s favorite parts of the day. 

But not today. Wyatt seemed perfectly content as he snored away on Scott’s side of the bed. Mitch could imagine Wyatt jumping up and proudly claiming his spot when Scott had gotten up, the little possessive rascal. Well he could have Mitch’s half of the bed too, ‘cause he was gonna go look for a hug. Once he found his boxers somewhere on the floor and “borrowed” one of Scott’s big, warm t-shirts that smelled just like him.

It took him padding down the front stairs to hear the faint tinkling of piano keys from Scott’s studio. The starting and stopping of a similar variation of chords had Mitch assuming that Scott was writing something, or maybe recording different pieces of a song, so he made sure to walk quietly as he approached the room. The door was already open when he paused in the doorway, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of Scott tapping some keys on his computer, then turning back to the piano, plinking a note and checking the computer, and turning back to play. 

Mitch padded in the room and sat down next to Scott on the edge of the piano bench, making sure to leave just enough space so Scott could reach whatever keys he—

An ungodly scream paired with a crunching, off-key chord cut through the room. Mitch jumped and almost bounced back off the seat. 

“What the  _ FUCK _ Mitch!”

Mitch blinked confusedly back at Scott’s wide eyes. “What?”

“Stop  _ doing _ that!”

Mitch almost laughed at his face but, “Doing  _ what? _ ”

Scott glared at him. “You walk so  _ quietly _ . Jesus  _ fuck _ —”

“You were recording!” Mitch gestured vaguely towards the computer. “I wasn’t going to come  _ stomping _ in—”

Scott grumbled and reached over to stop the recording. “You could’ve said ‘hi’ or something, it’s not like this was a final recording or—”

“Wait!” Mitch flung out his hand and grabbed Scott’s arm hovering over the computer trackpad. 

“What?”

“Don’t delete that!” 

Scott’s eyes flicked between his quickly. “Why not? It’s not like I can use any of it.”

Mitch tried to suppress his laugh. “Just—hold on—” 

He reached over Scott, who leaned back to watch him save the audio file, open his email and upload it, then very quickly type in Kirstie’s email and hit send before Scott could finish his “wait,  _ no _ —” and get his hands under Mitch’s to stop him.

The betrayed look on Scott’s face was very satisfying and also very funny, but his narrowing eyes and grab at Mitch were less so. He only got a few seconds to enjoy his success and imagine Kirstie’s face when she listens to the recording before he was being wrestled off the piano bench and onto the ground, fingers digging into his bare sides and  _ tickling him no way _ —

“ _ NO _ ,” Mitch gasped through the involuntary giggles and tried to squirm away, but Scott had his arms pinned under him and he couldn’t breathe no  _ no Scott, _ you—“ _ Bitch! _ ”

There were tears working their way out of the corners of his eyes by the time Scott quit cackling and let him suck in a breath. 

“I know I kind of deserved that—”

“ _ —absolutely _ deserved that—”

“ _ Kind of _ deserved that,” Mitch rested his head against the floor. “But tickling is just cruel.”

Scott was still sitting on top of him, although much more relaxed now and less evil and tickly. “Too bad for you then.”

Mitch glared at him. “Too bad for  _ you _ .”

“Oh yeah?” Scott wiggled his eyebrows. ”You gonna do something about it?”  
Mitch narrowed his eyes. “You can bet your ass on it.”

Scott’s smile turned more towards a smirk. “Promise?”

Mitch sighed and shoved Scott off him so he could pull himself to his feet. “You can make anything into an innuendo, can’t you?”

“It’s not me, it’s just the great English language.” Scott followed him out of the studio and towards the kitchen. He better not expect Mitch to make him eggs too, or anything. Because he absolutely was  _ not _ going to give him the satisfaction of having won and  _ also _ breakfast. 

“It’s not  _ English _ . It is  _ you _ , because there were never this many euphemisms when I was alive the first time.” He was sure there was some logical explanation for why he grabbed four eggs instead of just two. Maybe he just wanted two omelettes this morning. So he could eat one and then eat the other one while Scott was forced to watch. 

“I frankly find it difficult to believe that innuendos didn’t exist in the—what, 1800s?” Scott sat down at the counter and Mitch absolutely did not take notice of the big, soft, happy eyes tracking his every move around the kitchen. 

“There were innuendos in 1817. They just didn’t sound so—”

_ Promising. _

“—dirty back then.” He wasn’t sure what his excuse for getting the tomatoes out to top one of the omelettes with was. He might not like tomatoes on his omelettes, but Scott did, so… maybe he should try it again. On one of the omelettes.

Scott hummed in a way that Mitch assumed meant that he was just acknowledging his statement, and didn’t really believe him. “Just out of curiosity, what  _ did _ innuendos sound like in the olden days, Grandpa?”

Mitch turned and leaned back against the counter. “Don’t  _ ‘Grandpa _ ’ me. I’m technically younger than you.”

“Come  _ on,  _ I wanna hear your old person jokes.”

Mitch threw a piece of cheese at Scott. “I am  _ 26 _ .” Scott just caught the cheese and kept whining until Mitch sighed and continued. “Um, you always wind up my clock? I don’t know! It’s been two hundred years since I’ve heard anyone talk like that!”

Scott scoffed. “That’s  _ lame _ .”

“Well I didn’t make it up, so I don’t care.”

“English is  _ lame _ .”

Mitch slid Scott’s— _ his _ omelette on a plate and started on the second one. “You can shame innuendos all you want, but I happen to  _ like _ English literature. I might even go take some English courses this fall, so back off.”

Scott’s exaggerated pout dropped away to this horrible, crestfallen stare abruptly and he straightened in his chair. “You’re  _ leaving? _ ”

“What, no— _ no _ ,” Mitch hurried to backtrack, to fix that expression. “No, I’m not  _ leaving _ . No way. I was just gonna take some classes at the university here, in Palm Valley. Ben said that he took this World Literature course that—”

“Who’s  _ Ben? _ ” Scott looked completely lost, although not as heartbroken anymore, thank  _ God _ . But how did he not know who Ben was?

“Uh, the guy who owns the bookstore I work at? I told you about him passive aggressively telling off that soccer mom like, two weeks ago?”

A glimmer of recognition from Scott, but clearly not enough because—

“You have a  _ job?! _ ”

Mitch couldn’t figure out what to say, standing there blinking at each other with jaws hanging half way open like neither of them knew what to even say anymore. “What did you  _ think _ I was doing all day while you were in the studio?”

“I don’t—I don’t  _ know _ ,” Scott gaped at him. “Lounging around the house and watching TV?”

Mitch laughed. “I mean, I  _ did _ for like, the first month. But then I got bored, and boom. Job. I  _ swear _ I’ve told you about it before.”

Scott shook his head, a smile slowly creeping across his face. “Definitely not. Alright, sure. Mitchy has a job and wants to take some English classes next fall. Okay, cool. Is there something you wanted to do with a degree? Or just for fun, or what?”

Mitch shrugged and tried to salvage the second omelette that he had kinda forgotten he was cooking amidst the rest of this trainwreck of a conversation. “I don’t really know yet. Maybe I’ll write a book and be  _ famous _ , or something.”

“I still stand by my statement that you would be famous if you actually let me record you singing. You and Kirstie on that one duet? It would be  _ gold _ . Pure, musical gold.”

Mitch tossed another piece of cheese at Scott. “I told you, performing isn’t my thing. Singing with you guys is fun, but like,  _ actually _ doing that would be too stressful for me.”

Scott pouted. “Someday? Maybe?”

“ _ Maybe _ .”

Scott nodded. “I can work with that. Okay. So did you have any ideas for a book or something? Oooh,” he visibly zoned out. “You should write like, an autobiography but make it sound like a fictional story. Oh, that would be  _ so cool! _ ”

Mitch laughed and slid Scott a plate and a fork. “Please. Who would want to read  _ that? _ ”

Scott raised his hand, and he chucked another piece of cheese at him. Which was promptly added to Scott’s omelette. 

“No, I was thinking about maybe writing about that Kevin guy. You know, the guy who got me a birth certificate and stuff?” He had conveniently left out the part where Kevin had given it to Kirstie, and Kirstie had passed it along to him. “I had plenty of time while I was still dead to think about his weird ass life, helping ghosts be, well,  _ semi-legal _ people again. I have a few ideas.”

Whatever sound Scott had just made around a forkful of egg was probably supposed to be supportive or excited, but it really just sounded like he was trying not to choke. Mitch just laughed. 

**********************

Mitch was squirming and panting underneath him, and everything was perfect. Well, maybe he’d like to do something about his own dick soon, but he was trying not to think about it, because he’d much rather focus on Mitch right now than his own hard length. That could come later. He snickered.

“Wh—what?” Mitch was breathless. And fucking gorgeous.

“Nothing.” He curled his fingers again and Mitch tossed his head back against the pillow. His groan was just—was making it hard to keep dragging this out.

“Enough,” Mitch moaned. “I promise I’m ready. You’ve been very  _ ah _ —very thorough.”

Scott leaned down and licked one more torturously slow stripe up Mitch’s dick. 

A hand slapped his shoulder. “ _ Scott _ .”

“Yes, fine.” A grab for the condom, a grab for the lube, a grab for Mitch’s ass to keep him close while Scott got himself ready to go, too. He lined himself up along Mitch’s ass and did his best to not push forward too hard, just to tease a little. He glanced up and Mitch was biting his lip. 

“Go slow,” Mitch looked determined, although months worth of staring at his eyes helped Scott pick out the little bit of worry and hesitation. 

Scott nodded. “Relax. You can tell me to stop whenever.”

Mitch took a deep breath and nudged him with his knee, clearly anxious to just get on with it already but trying to shake off the extra tension. Scott watched his face carefully as he gently pushed forward with Mitch’s exhale. 

He could almost hear Mitch internally reminding himself everything that he’d said out loud, right before they’d started. Mitch knew what it was going to feel like, at least initially, because Scott had told him what it felt like. And Mitch had also admitted at Scott’s prompting that he’d tried fingering himself before— _ and _ Mitch hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Scott had been thorough and careful when he’d prepped him. He didn’t want to hurt Mitch, and Mitch  _ knew _ that. 

When Scott was maybe halfway or so, Mitch cringed and waved for him to pause. Scott stopped and reached down for Mitch’s hand, giving his fingers a tight squeeze. “Okay?”

Mitch nodded. “I’m fine. Just… needed a second.”

Scott rubbed his thumb over Mitch’s knuckles. “You can have as long as you want.” He took this opportunity to lean down carefully, as to not accidentally push forward, and start sucking a hickey into the closest bit of skin he could reach. He ended up landing a little under Mitch’s collarbone and enjoyed swirling his tongue around and nibbling with the rise and fall of Mitch’s chest.

“That better look good later,” Mitch mumbled above him.

Scott chuckled and lifted his head. “How are you feeling?”

Mitch looked less tense this time when they made eye contact. “Horny and increasingly impatient.”

“Hm,” Scott set his hands back on either side of Mitch’s shoulders. “We should probably do something about that, then.”

Mitch wiggled his hips a little, probably to remind Scott of what he wanted—like Scott had  _ forgotten _ . “Please?”

Scott pushed forward again slowly, and this time, he made it all the way in one long, smooth glide. He paused when their hips were fully pressed up against each other, and warm and satisfying and absolutely a distraction right now from other sensations that he may or may not be currently experiencing that he is  _ not thinking about _ .

Because this was about Mitch, not him. He’d done this before, dozens of times. He’d tried it both ways, mixed it up. He’d tried kinky things in college that had taught him about sex and relationships and people, had learned about himself and his limits and what was a really stupid idea and what was amazing. He’d explored and been wild. 

Mitch? He’d never gotten this before. Mitch deserved the  _ world _ after everything he’d gone through. He’d fucking  _ died _ because he’d dared to take a chance and trust someone. And here he was, two  _ hundred  _ years later, choosing to be right here. Under Scott. With his eyes closed and clothes gone and legs hiked up and arms lax, out to the sides. 

He was trusting Scott with his entire body. His _entire_ _body_ , which he’d only even had for a few months, and must be so— _indescribably_ valuable to him. Scott knew he could never really understand what he’d gone through, alone for _centuries_. But Mitch was here, now, choosing this. Choosing Scott. Trusting him to introduce him to this and so, _so_ much more. And he was not going to mess it up.

Scott’s eyes were trained very closely on Mitch’s face, watching every little puff of air leaving his lips and the twitching of his eyelids and the slight smile starting to curl up on his face. Mitch’s eyes flicked open, and he whispered out another “Please?”, somehow picking up on Scott’s suddenly more serious mood.

Scott started moving slowly, being careful to not push too hard or pull on Mitch too much. He wanted Mitch’s first time to be perfect and incredible and everything that he’d never had before. And yes, he knew that Mitch didn’t want it to be a big deal—would prefer it to just be them trying out another new thing. But Mitch deserved to be spoiled and pampered after all the absolute  _ shit  _ the world had thrown at him, and Scott wanted to spend his entire fucking life giving him everything he could. 

So he was going to be slow and gentle with Mitch. He was going to brush his hair out of his face when Mitch tossed his head back and huffed out a laugh at how ridiculous this was. He was going to make sure each thrust was rhythmic and careful, and aimed just perfectly when Mitch gasped out  _ there yes right there _ . He was going to lean down and pepper Mitch’s face and neck and chest with as many sweet little kisses he could. He was going to intertwine his fingers with Mitch’s when a hand resting on his shoulder traced down towards his own own hand. 

And he did.

Mitch was breathing heavily, and Scott probably was too. He could feel Mitch’s hips twitching up with his movements, and feel Mitch squirming slightly. He wasn’t trying to get away, just gasping along with Scott’s thrusts and whatever he was feeling. He knew that Mitch was probably just about there, considering how long Scott had drawn out prepping him and building up to this moment. Getting Mitch as warm and relaxed and comfortable as he could. 

Scott leaned down closer and connected their lips, surprised at how well Mitch was able to kiss back, at least initially. His lips slowly stopped moving against Scott’s, just letting him kiss across his mouth and eventually down his jaw again and across his face. 

Scott reached down and pulled one of Mitch’s bent legs up higher. He didn’t speed up, but he chased after Mitch’s choked “ _ oh _ ” with deeper pushes. Mitch’s hand tightened around Scott’s and he shivered once. 

Mitch’s free hand lifted up and squeezed down between their chests. Scott would love to replace his hand wrapping around himself and matching Scott’s rhythm with long strokes, both of his hands were occupied. 

Mitch’s eyes were locked on Scott’s again. He looked dazed, but still so absolutely focused on Scott, and Scott had no idea how to label the surge of  _ something  _ in his chest as he saw Mitch blink quickly and fight to keep his eyes open. Mitch shivered again and Scott felt his thighs tighten around Scott. His hand clenched around Scott’s and he lost the battle to keep his eyes open. Scott wasn’t entirely sure that Mitch noticed.

Mitch didn’t make any of the normal whines or moans or “ _ fuck, Scott! _ ”s when he came. He just sighed and curled up into Scott. Scott tilted his head to press a long kiss to Mitch’s forehead, tucked just in the right spot in his shoulder for Scott to reach. Scott barely even noticed when he followed Mitch off the edge, hadn’t really even acknowledged how close he was over watching Mitch, trying to attune to him as perfectly as he could.

They didn’t move for a few minutes, just rested against each other and breathed. Scott carefully lifted himself up off and out of Mitch, pausing for just a moment to soak in the masterpiece of an image watching him lazily from the bed before grabbing a washcloth to clean up with. 

The washcloth was discarded, a blanket was tucked around Mitch, and the door was cracked open to let Wyatt wander in later before Scott could crawl in bed with Mitch. As soon as Scott laid down, Mitch rolled closer and dropped his head heavily on Scott’s chest. They both watched silently as Wyatt padded into the room and bounced up onto the end of the bed to curl up. 

Mitch was the first to break the peaceful quiet. “You know,” his voice sounded low and hoarse, despite the lack of use for the last several minutes, “I spent over two hundred years believing that if I did that, I would be damned. I wasn’t even particularly religious, but that was the given idea—hell was my fate.” 

Mitch readjusted to snuggle in closer to Scott. Scott shifted his arm around Mitch to keep him closer, and warm. 

“But if that’s what hell is, I could burn forever and be a happy man.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not a thing—not a goddamn  _ thing _ about that was anything less than heaven.”

Scott let his hand start tracing vague circles across Mitch’s bare back across where the blankets had revealed his soft skin. “Would now be a bad time for a ‘you’re so hot’ joke?”

He could feel Mitch’s smile against his chest. “Not at all.”

Scott squeezed Mitch a little tighter. “You’re so hot.”

“That wasn’t a very good joke.”

“‘Cause it wasn’t a joke.”

“False advertisement.”

Scott smiled. “I love you.”

If he’d been doubting how Mitch felt in the slightest, the way that his voice managed to capture the reverent sincerity of his message would have consoled him. But he didn’t doubt Mitch, so he soaked in the velvety, rich awe and contentness instead.

“I love you more.”

Of course, that wasn’t possible though. “Not possible.”

“Try me.”

“I think I just did.”

A pinch on his hip. “You should try me again, then.”

“I’m planning to.” Over and over again, for the rest of their lives, if he was lucky.


	17. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, sorry for the delay on this. My excuse is ~life~. Enjoy the last chapter!😪🥳❤️

The only sound in the house was the slight echo reverberating around the foyer from the front door clicking shut, then the brushing of fabric as Mitch toed off his shoes. Which would be fine, it’s not like he’s not fairly used to getting this house to himself. But Scott’s car  _ was _ here, so… 

Mitch swung his backpack up on his shoulder to lug it upstairs, but  _ first _ —he poked his head into the door of Scott’s studio, but again, nope. It was quiet in there. The lights were off in the kitchen down the hall too, so he figured he didn’t need to check there. Scott knew better than to cook with the lights off. Or at least, Mitch hoped he did.

Upstairs didn’t seem to serve him any better. Mitch shuffled into the empty bedroom but only found a free sweater for the snatching. No Scott. Walking back down the hall offered him more silence and dark rooms, but still no Scotty. 

_ The upstairs lounge then, maybe?  _

The room was much brighter, but not because there were any lights on, or because the light of his life happened to be in there. Just the windows on the far wall letting in the sunlight and the view of the city that Mitch would never  _ ever _ get sick of. 

_ Oh _ , but he wasn’t alone in here, apparently. His attempt to toss his bag down onto the couch was quickly aborted when Mitch just barely registered Wyatt sprawled out in the backpack’s landing zone. 

“Hey, queen,” Mitch murmured out as he sat next to the indifferent gray blob. He set his bag carefully on the ground instead this time so he didn’t crush the cat or, God forbid, his computer. That would probably grant him some more time to keep procrastinating finishing, ahem, starting his essay, but he didn’t really want to have to go out and buy a whole new computer for his troubles. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Scott is, would you?”

Wyatt just blinked blearily at him and stretched across the cushion. 

Mitch sighed and leaned back. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

It wasn’t too bad in here, alone with Wyatt, he supposed. He could just chill out here with his favorite little sort-of-furry pet (sorry Floof, you may be new and tiny and adorable, but you’re  _ Kirstie’s  _ dog, not his) until Scott decided to reveal himself. 

He wouldn’t be playing a prank on Mitch, right? Like, he’s not sitting on the roof or anything and assuming Mitch was actually going to find him? No, he would more likely be exploring the attic again than waiting alone on the roof. Mitch had scolded him enough times over his fondness for reenacting Mufasa’s death scene to go up there alone. Just in case. But he probably wasn’t rummaging through the random boxes up in the attic either, because the house  _ was _ silent. 

If Scott was in the attic finding cool stuff, Mitch would probably be hearing a faint yelling about “ _ What the fuck is this?! _ ” or “ _ Woooooooooah! _ ”. But no, it was still, indeed, silent.

Maybe Scott had gone for a walk then. The walk down the hill to the edge of the city wasn’t unreasonable, and Mitch could vouch for it being quite a nice little trip after his many days of sleeplessness and coffee. 

_ Ooh _ , maybe Scott was getting Starbucks for them! There was a Starbucks not too far from the mansion that Mitch had stopped at  _ way _ too many times. Okay, Scott  _ probably _ wasn’t getting Starbucks—but he  _ could _ be.

Mitch tossed his feet up on the coffee table and stretched out to soak in the sun like Wyatt. Yeah, he could sit here for a long time.

He debated tugging his computer out of his bag and actually working on that essay, but like… he could do it tomorrow. That would give him enough time to come up with some opinion to write about. Hopefully.

He chuckled. Maybe he should go get some Starbucks himself while he was waiting for Scott to turn up. Ugh, but walking all the way down the hill didn’t sound super appealing right now. It was beautiful outside and the walk was very nice, but  _ ughhhhh _ .

When Scott showed up—inevitably with no coffee—he could ask him to go get him some coffee for  _ real _ . Scott would definitely go get him some if he asked nicely.  _ Really _ nicely, maybe with a side of not-so-nice… or he could beg a little bit— _ stop it _ . 

_ He’s not even here right now, all you’re gonna do is work yourself up _ . 

...He would revisit that line of thought later. When he  _ found  _ Scott.

Mitch tilted his head back and gazed out the window again. It was a good distraction from his Scott craving. He’d sat around this house and watched the little flicker of lights down in the crevice of the valley grow across the decades, and now it was a gorgeous, sprawling city laid out under the edge of the lawn and down the hillside. The long driveway curled around the back of the house, back behind the line of trees around the lawn’s border, and Mitch could almost picture watching Scott’s car come rolling up and into view. Except that it was at home already. 

Mitch rolled his eyes at his own hyperfocus on Scott. He had this nice opportunity to take a moment and really appreciate the view of the lawn, and the patio below them, and the city sparkling down below them, and the big oak tree swaying in the apparent breeze near the back of the lawn, and— _ what the fuck? _

No  _ wonder _ Mitch hadn’t been able to find Scott.

Why on earth would he have looked under the oak tree on the far side of the lawn? Literally what was Scott doing?

Wyatt grumbled out a protest when Mitch’s hand retreated, but he could deal with it. Mitch needed to go poke at his Scotty and find out why he was taking a nap in the grass. 

His feet were quiet enough on the stairs and the hardwood kitchen already, so he made sure to walk loudly through the grass so he wouldn’t scare Scott again. 

(Side note: Halloween was going to be  _ so much fun  _ next month. Pranks, scaring each other, lots of casual references to ghosts? It was right up his alley.)

Apparently his plan wasn’t very well executed though, seeing as Scott startled when Mitch stopped over him, crossed his arms, and informed him, “We have an actual bed you can sleep in, you know.”

Scott blinked up at him, clearly trying to get his eyes to adjust to the brightness. “Hey.” And grabby hands appeared to get him to sit down next to him. 

Mitch sat down cross legged next to him and leaned back on his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Missed you.”

He snorted, as if he hadn’t just been sitting around the house, pouting because he couldn’t find Scott for ten minutes. “And you decided the lawn was the best place to wait for me to get home? My lecture wasn’t  _ that _ long.”

“Hmm,” Scott seemed to consider it. “Except it was. Missed you.”

“...and you’re  _ here _ because…?” He really wanted to hear whatever weird explanation for this Scott had. 

“You’re buried under this tree, yes?”

Uh… well, technically yes? “I suppose?”

Scott nodded, pleased. “Therefore, I’m taking a nap with you while waiting for you to get home… sort of.”

What—well, that’s— _ hmm _ .

“Scott, that’s weird.”

Scott lifted his head indignantly. “Great. And you’re gonna do exactly  _ what _ about it?”

Mitch laid down next to Scott. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Still weird.” He wasn’t going to bother mentioning that it was kind of sweet. Scott didn’t need the encouragement. 

“ _ You’re _ weird.”

Mitch poked Scott in the side and ignored his answering squirm. Well, he didn’t  _ acknowledge  _ it, necessarily, except to press back into Scott’s shoulder when he managed to settle closer to Mitch than they’d been before. 

This wasn’t actually that bad. You would think the ground would be more uncomfortable, but the grass was soft enough that it was like laying on a squishy carpet.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I  _ have _ my body.” Mitch elbowed him gently to make his point more clear. 

“I  _ have _ noticed, actually.” He could hear the smirk in Scott’s voice without having to look. 

“I  _ mean _ ,” Mitch elbowed him again, “you have no proof that there’s actually a body still buried here. I think we can agree that nothing about ghosts makes sense, so we really have no evidence that this  _ isn’t _ my original body. I mean, I have the scar from the knife, and—”

“Shhh.” Scott rolled a bit and a finger was smushed into his lips. “You’re invalidating my afternoon.”

Mitch huffed and batted away Scott’s hand. “I’m just  _ saying _ . If, like, physics and stuff don’t really apply to being a ghost, then we don’t know that I didn’t get my original body back. I was reading about that theory that says electrons can be in multiple places at the same time—I don’t remember what the theory was called—but it  _ could _ be the same principle. Same body, just in a different place now.” He paused for a second, then added. “I’ve gotta say, that article was not anywhere as entertaining to read as  _ Brave New World _ , but the science was a bit less, um, terrifying. You really should read—”

Scott was still semi-propped up on one elbow, looking down at Mitch. “I don’t really want to read a book about electrocuting babies.”

“I  _ told _ you that’s just the first chapter, and it’s supposed to be a metaphor for society conditioning—”

Scott made an exaggerated puking sound and squirmed away from Mitch’s outstretched hand, primed for more poking.

“If it’s any comfort to you,” Scott managed to grab Mitch’s hand out of the air and intertwine their fingers, “I have no intention to dig around and look for your body. I’d rather not—I don’t want to see you dead. Again.” He trailed off and chuckled. That was fair; it wasn’t exactly a normal, everyday statement you could say to just anyone.

“Well I don’t want to see you dead either.” Mitch couldn’t help but to smile a little at the daily reminder of how weird his life (Part 2, now with more equality!) was. “I had to wait 200 fucking years to meet you; I’m not going anywhere, and you better not either.”

“Great. So no dying, got it.” Scott nodded once and flopped back against the ground. “Ow.”

Mitch snickered.

“This isn’t what I was planning on talking about.” 

And why would it be? Talking about the Schrödinger’s cat of Mitch’s body wasn’t exactly casual conversation material. Mitch folded his hands on his stomach. “Did you have something else in mind?”

Scott shrugged, and the motion tugged on Mitch’s own arm from how close they’d ended up to each other and their clasped hands. “Probably something about how you’re as pretty as the view.”

Mitch sighed. “You sap.”

“You bet. This really wouldn’t be the worst place to be buried. It’s gorgeous. Like you.”

Mitch pressed a kiss to the top of Scott’s arm, closest to his face. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, listening to the gentle melody of the rustling of leaves, the distant sounds of the city, a bird landing on a creaky branch above them. As expected with the beginnings of autumn, there was a leaf drifting down slowly towards their heads, just to be blown further across the lawn. It wasn’t very warm out anymore, Mitch noticed, but it didn’t really bother him. 

The air may be cool, but Scott was radiating heat next to him. And wasn’t that good enough? Although if this became a regular napping location, he would probably benefit from a scarf or something. 

“Hey Scott?”

“Mhm?”

Mitch turned his head so he could press a kiss to the top of Scott’s arm again. “Love you.”

“And  _ I’m _ the sap.” There was just enough time for Mitch to elbow him again, but he refrained this time. Scott leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of Mitch’s head. “Love you more.”

“Yeah, right.”

Scott hummed back, and Mitch could picture the eye roll he was probably receiving right now.

Mitch leaned his head back against the soft blades of grass to look up at the sky. There was another leaf drifting downwards slowly, it’s rich scarlet and deep brown splotches contrasted beautifully by the pale blue sky and the almost too perfect, pearly white clouds lazily wafting across the distant horizon. 

And  _ oh _ —that’s what Scott had meant all those weeks ago, when they’d been in the shower together for the first time. About his favorite color being brown. 

Mitch’s favorite color was blue, he realized, as he stared up at the sky.

They’d agreed that it was just  _ so _ beautiful outside today, but even gazing up into the rich blue above them, Mitch could only think of one other, nearly identical shade of blue that he loved to stare into. He could stare up at the sky all day and soak in its beauty, but then he would be missing out on the rest of  _ his _ blue. 

So he turned his head to look at his favorite color, and smiled when it was already looking right back at him.

**********************

Mitch shivered against the bitter wind. You would think it wouldn’t get  _ that _ cold in  _ Palm _ Valley, where there are, you know,  _ palm trees  _ and a warm climate—but maybe Mitch was just more sensitive to the cold now.

_ Scratch that _ , Mitch blew hot air over his freezing fingers while he waited for the three little bubbles to turn into a heart emoji so he could tuck his phone back into his pocket. He was  _ definitely _ more sensitive to the cold. Frickin’ Cora wasn’t even wearing a  _ jacket _ .

Scott finally sent back a kissy face emoji and also the heart that Mitch had sent him first, so Mitch shoved the phone away and grabbed a box out of the back seat of Cora’s car. 

The first few trips up and down the stairs to her new apartment weren’t that bad, especially with the effort helping to keep him warm against the bitter chill, but once they had gotten down to the last few boxes, Mitch was starting to regret offering to help. Sure, he probably owed her from all the time sitting in the back of the lecture hall and forcing her to listen to his complaints about their professor’s love for poetry and his…  _ interesting _ interpretations of it, but he wasn’t exactly the strongest person she could have asked. 

_ Damn _ , he should’ve brought Scott. 

The last box he pulled out of the trunk seemed to be the heaviest fucking thing in the entire universe as he dragged his feet back up the stairs and in through the propped open door. Cora was right behind him, snickering at his grunting while she locked up her car and swung the door shut behind him. 

“Just leave that one in the living room,” she waved at the table already stacked with an outrageous number of boxes and papers and pens and probably a full meal and maybe her snake somewhere, too. Mitch flopped back on her couch in the tiny space between a stack of vacuum sealed pillows and a box of—shoes? Yep, lots of boots, primarily in varieties of black—while Cora yelled something about grabbing her laptop out of her bedroom so they could order a pizza. 

He could hear stuff being tossed on the floor down the hall, which was a bit more counterproductive than she was probably going for, and it paired well with the rattling of the old, metal blinds that weren’t gonna last longer than a week. 

Tucking his hands under his legs to keep his fingers warm against the cold wind coming through the window was instinctual at this point. Except—where was the wind? Mitch glanced over his shoulder at the window and—the window was closed? 

But the blinds were rattling. Mitch’s head whipped back forward when something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he just managed to see a pen flip up on end before wobbling and tipping off the table onto the floor. 

_ What the…  _

A smile slowly crept over his face. “You know,” he addressed the air quietly. “You should try drawing with toothpaste or ketchup. It works a bit better than knocking stuff over all the time.”

The single lamp plugged in flickered quickly. 

Cora appeared again at the end of the hall. “Did you say something?”

Mitch grinned over the back of the couch. “Nothing.” 

He watched as Cora pushed a bunch of boxes off a chair so she could sit with the computer open on her lap. “Uh, random question…”

She nodded, still engrossed in clicking on probably lots of extra pepperoni and choosing stuffed crust, (as she should).

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Cora looked up from the pizza order and snorted. “Uh, no? Ghosts definitely aren’t real. Why?”

Mitch shrugged and looked down at the pen sitting on the floor. “No reason. I just think you’re  _ really _ gonna like this apartment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, scene. 
> 
> ❤️ to ALL OF YOU bc i love you and i cannot thank you enough for taking the time to actually sit through my writing, let alone leave a kudos or comment or something, just AHHH 😘 
> 
> And last but not least, in the famous words of Arnold Schwarzenegger: I'll be back.


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